Autonomy
by team.aaf
Summary: AU 4. Family problems and a first rescue. Set January 2060. Rated K Plus.
1. Rebellion

**Hey, all. Back with the next story. Again it's set in the same AU as my other stories. I'd like to apologise in advance if my posting isn't always regular. I will do my best, but I have a lot of college work on at the moment.**

**Also, there may be points in this story, where racism is indicated towards. I'd just like to say I do not condone any type of racism or bullying, it's just the way the story may write itself.**

**The K+ rating is based on the inclusion of some mild coarse language.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Thunderbirds (they belong to someone who is not me, I don't actually know who it is now) and I am not making any money from this story. None of the characters are intended to portray any living or dead person and any similarities are entirely coincidental.**

**This disclaimer applies to all chapters posted for this story.**

**1. Rebellion**

Tilly Green looked up, wiping the back of her green-paint splattered hand across her eyes. Golden, rainbowed sunlight was just beginning to flood into the room, catching the vivid blue streaks in her otherwise dark hair, and highlighting the silver lines vinyled down the black walls of her bedroom behind her.

Dark rings had begun to circle her deep brown eyes, adding to the eyeliner layered around the lower lashes, and she stood up, sparing a glance for what she had spent all night working on, down on the floor, before heading to the mirror, roughly screwed against one of doors to her wardrobe. A small grimace at her appearance confirmed that she needed to wash before the real start of the events to come, but she was interrupted by the entry of her mother.

The thirty-one year old took one glance around the room and sighed.

"Matilda Green, have you been up _all _night painting that poster?"

The fifteen year old shrugged. "Have you still not learnt to knock?" She retaliated, but her mother ignored her, a skill borne of a lot of practice.

"You know I don't approve of all of this mumbo-jumbo crap you go in for, _and _you know that you're grounded. You're not going out today."

"Sure I'm not." Tilly attempted to edge past her mother.

"Stop right there, young lady."

"I'm just going to wash. It's not like I'm going to go out without the posters, and stuff, is it?"

"Fine. Go and shower and then you can clear up this mess." Tilly barely spared her mother a fleeting glance. "I mean it. Then you can come with me to the store."

Pushing past the figure blocking her doorway, Tilly made her way to the bathroom, and firmly closed and locked the pine door behind her, before leaning back on it and sighing, blowing her long fringe out of her eyes. It flopped quietly back on the right hand side of her face, stubbornly obscuring her view. In the pocket of her sapphire jeans, something vibrated ferociously, desperately wanting attention.

Slipping down the doorframe, the fifteen year old sat on the floor; legs stretched out before her, and pulled her phone from her pocket. The screen flashed as she keyed a few buttons.

'_U still cming 2day? Alx.'_

Tilly smiled and entered in her reply.

"Sure I am, Alex. Grounding doesn't stop Tilly Green!" She whispered out loud to no one in particular, imagining herself for a brief moment, super-hero pose, and all.

Then she stood, turning on the scalding shower water, and stripping off her clothes. Stepping beneath the pounding water, she washed thoroughly, scrubbing away the fatigue and at the same time just some of the anger slipped away.

Her mother was just looking out for her; she could almost empathise with her if she tried really hard, and Alex and the others _could_ appear slightly unsavoury at times. Still, she'd been mollycoddled since her father had died six years ago, her mother had wanted to protect her, and that was when things had started to change.

Tilly had stopped allowing people to call her Matilda when she had gone up to middle school. The change had provided her with a chance to transform her life, starting with the name she hated. Her mother had told her a new label, did not make the thing inside different, just, as a new name wouldn't change who it was that she was, but Tilly was determined.

Then she had met Alex Haddon. Tall with dyed black hair and a mischievous streak, she was immediately drawn to him, and the strange ash-blonde girl who seemed to have no friends (whether it was because she had never had any, or whether it was because she had pushed them all away, he never found out) and a strange past that teachers were very aware of, in turn had attracted him.

The first her mother had known about her daughter's developing rebellious streak was when she had come back from one her new friend's houses with dark hair. To begin with Marisa Green was all for marching the ill-behaved girl straight to the hairdressers, but had reminded herself that she needed to give Tilly space. After all, things were very different from a few years ago; the death had affected them both in varying ways.

It had got worse though, those damned blue streaks had appeared in her hair, sometimes with complimenting red, purple or green highlights as well. By then Marisa had lost control though; her daughter began coming home in the early hours of the night having been round a friends, she joined up to some society that frequently held protests and more recently, had starting drinking when out with her new friends. Unfortunately the cogs were already in motion, and it was going to take a large effort to stop Tilly completely falling into this 'new' way of life.

The shower switched off, leaving a strange silence in its place, and Tilly rubbed herself dry, before wrapping the towel about her body and leaving the bathroom. Back in her room, she carefully navigated around the mess on her floor, empty paint pots and water tubs stood around the finished poster, which was surrounded by miniature mountains of dirty clothes, lightly sprinkled with clean garments on top, but she ignored it all heading towards the mirror again.

Beneath it was her hairdryer and brush, with which she carefully dried her hair; taking care to make sure it was straight when finished, with the blue running vertically in the correct, strategic places. Her hair needed dying again, she mused. Then she sat on the floor, using just the bottom section of the reflective glass to apply thick black make-up around her eyes again. Finished she stood, towel still wrapped around her body, and searched through the piles of clothes on her floor for a clean pair of jeans and a top.

Dressed and content with her appearance, Tilly collected up some of the discarded pots on her floor and placed them in a neat pile on her cluttered desk, before testing the paint of her latest poster with her finger. Scanning the digit for wet acrylic and finding none, she rolled the A2 sized paper up and twisted a rubber band around it's middle, securing it in a tight cylinder ready for transportation. Despite her mother forbidding Tilly to go out, she was planning on directly disobeying her.

Mobile phone, money and keys were thrust into her jeans' pocket and the rolled up poster secured under one arm, then the fifteen-year-old protester opened her plastic framed bedroom window and proceed to climb down the green, ivy-laced lattice that ran down, next to her make-shift exit. Her mother didn't hear her leave her leave the house, nor did she notice the figure hugging the wall as she ran past the kitchen window.

And then Tilly Green was away.

Smiling to herself, she pulled out her phone again.

_'Jst lft. B thr soon. Til x'_

A soft vibrating as the phone was slipped back into her pocket, confirmed that the message had been received.

The Mobridge Society for Promoting the Abolition of Slavery had lost much of it's momentum when North America had abandoned the ways of having servants, but the society had stood strong, instead turning to battle more modern issues, like the under-paid, African-immigrant workers in the Hans J. De Marco Factory, in downtown Glenham, a neighbouring town.

That was the purpose of the protest today. The society was to gather together and hold up traffic, in a plea to get their message across to members of the public.

Tilly Green walked briskly, following signs to Lake Oahe, where she was set to meet Alex and the other members of the group. Her mother would probably be just discovering her escape now, and would be furiously slamming doors behind her, she grinned at the thought.

Almost twenty minutes into her journey, Tilly stopped by an old tourist guide to consult a crudely drawn, artist's impression map of Mobridge. It was a bigger town than people realised, and that included Tilly. She'd never walked to the lake by herself before, her father had always taken her, and since he died she'd never been back. Her eyebrows drew together in a frown as she studied the map, and she bit her lower lip in thought.

_'Chnge of plan. Gtting bus. 2 far 2 wlk. Til x'_

Okay, so maybe she should have planned ahead, and thought about how she was going to get to the gathering, but the best protestors did things on a whim, right? Sighing, she trudged down the paved road towards the bus stop, from where she got on a battered, old transport vehicle to Lake Oahe.

Pulling up at the side of the toll system to get on the bridge that went for miles over the expanse of water, the driver turned to Tilly.

"Last stop, Miss. I don't go no further; else I've got to pay. Get the other side of those tolls though, and you'll find another bus."

"Thanks."

Tilly jumped down from the bus on to the hot road beneath, and headed towards the pedestrian access gate, a large, heavy, black iron structure that required all of her strength to push open and slip through. Clearly, the government didn't want people to walk through the tolls, she thought.

On the other side, the gathered members from the society met her. All jumbled up people, wearing mis-matching tops, many with large, blaring letters, demanding equal pay and fair treatment, stood together, signs in hand, getting in the way of the traffic trying to pass through to the other side.

Tilly acknowledged greetings from a couple of the people she knew, but continued searching for one person in particular. After all, there were many there that she had never even met before, and she didn't want to be landed with a group of strangers, with whom she had very little in common.

"He's over there, honey." Tilly spun round to see Jude Hollands pointing over her shoulder. She was a well-built woman, with a ferocious attitude to life, and a determination to get her own way. Tilly had always liked Jude, just over ten years her senior, she'd never treated the rebellious teenager like a kid, but as the adult she almost was, and in return had received respect and trust.

"Thanks, Jude." She smiled back, genuinely meaning it, and the fifteen year old headed in the direction shown to her.

And there he was. Standing with his back to her, he was shouting at cars passing in front of him, brandishing his banner as though it would make all the difference in the world.

"Alex." She called out to him. "Alex."

Alex Haddon heard his name over the sound of the traffic and turned to look for whom it was who needed him, annoyed that his latest rant had been interrupted. He'd just been getting in to it too. His anger vanished in a second though, when he saw the dark haired girl who had shouted for him.

"Hey, Til."

The girl sidled over to him.

"Hey. I got the poster done. I was up all last night, my mum had a fit."

He pulled her close to him. "Never mind, at least you're here. So, let's see the work of art then."

Tilly Green unravelled the poster from beneath her arm where she'd been carrying it, and held it up proudly for her friend to see.

"I like it."

"Really?"

"Uh huh. Of course I do, Til. Who else would come up with slogans like you do?"

Tilly giggled, flushing with delight at his words, desperate to impress.

"Come on. There's a great spot just over here." He pointed to their right, towards the edge of the bridge. "No one's there, and all the drivers can't miss us."

He dragged the girl off behind him, where together they stood and protested their own anger at the factory to the passing travellers, from their spot on the zig-zagging yellow lines.


	2. Absence Notes

**2. Absence Notes**

Dry, sweltering heat thumped down on the sun-baked land, and all those living upon it, browning skin and lightening hair during the hours of daytime. When the sun slipped around to light the rest of the world, the air cooled slowly, and as the ground steadily released the thermal energy it had been holding captive, it never became too cold.

Two brothers sat outside, around the side-lit pool, using it's glow to see by. Permanent occupants of Tracy Island for only nine days now, they had already come to ignore the sounds of wildlife, and had realised that night time was warm enough to sit outside in, at least in the Pacific summer months; they had yet to experience the winter. For a long moment, the only sounds were the periodic scuttling of insects in the surrounding shrubbery.

"Still not quite normal, is it?" Scott turned towards his brother, raising his eyebrows.

"No. It's not, is it? I still can't quite believe he's done it."

"Me either, Virge. I thought it'd fall through at the first hurdle, when someone questioned one of the orders, or something, but well, I guess, he proved us both wrong."

Scott Tracy was laid back on one of the colourful sun recliners, made of hard, azure material. Seven of them littered the poolside decking, but his was the only occupied one. Chocolate coloured trousers and white tee stood out starkly against the bright background, until he sat up suddenly.

"You know, if he knew we were out here, he'd have fit."

Virgil laughed. "Yeah. We should be resting, just in case." He shot his brother a meaningful grin.

Eighteen years old, he wore long, beige shorts, with large pockets down the sides and a large cerulean hooded jumper, with _OAKLEY SOCCER SQUAD_ emblazoned on the back in large golden letters. His lower legs dangled in the cool swimming waters, and his long-ish hair, which stood up straight, in small gathered clumps of menacing waxed hair, was beginning to droop.

Another pause of silence reigned in the darkness.

"Wish the others were here though."

"Yeah." Scott nodded, although his sibling never saw, as he was facing the other way. "But they all have their reasons, Virge."

"Mmm. Sure."

"Trust me, if they could, they'd be here."

Virgil stared at the slowly lapping waters, and just for a moment, imagined his redheaded brother in them.

"I know." He finally replied. Scott lay back against the seat again, wondering how to broach the next subject he wanted so desperately to talk about. The main problem was how close two of his siblings had become, and he didn't want to upset one half of the duo, which was presently in his company.

"You heard from Gordon?" The level of bluntness that came out wasn't quite what he had expected to. Still, at least it was out in the open.

Virgil spun around, to face his brother this time, his voice layered with a new emotion. Maybe, Scott should have been a little more tactful. "You know I haven't, Scott. You'd be the first person I'd tell." He took a deep breath, turning to face the water again. "Sorry. I didn't mean to take it out on you."

"S'ok, Virge. It's hard for all of us."

This time, Virgil stood up completely and came to sit on the end of the recliner that his older brother was relaxing against, who shifted his legs to the side to accommodate his sibling, knowing that a talk was coming. The plastic creaked gently under the added weight, though neither boy noticed.

"Christmas was so… strange. I kept expecting him to walk into the room, and crack a joke, or something. But he never did. I still can't believe how badly Dad screwed that one up. I mean, he didn't exactly do anything _wrong_."

Scott thought for a moment before answering levelly, looking hard at his brother.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Virge, but maybe you need to see it from his point of view."

"His point of view? What about Gordon, though?" He exclaimed.

"Whoa, Virge. Just… just hear me out." Virgil nodded slowly. "As far as Father has ever been concerned, good children finish school, right the way to the end of senior year. And, well, he's already got four examples of how well that system works. Himself, me, Johnny and you; and then Gordon has gone and done something very different."

"Different's not always bad."

"No, it's not. All he can see though, is that he's got a drop out for a son, who hasn't even gone and done something worthwhile, _in his view_. The World Navy doesn't mean all that much to Father. There's no patriotism, and there's no flying."

"Dad was so proud though, last summer, he was telling everyone about Gordon, showing everyone the photographs. Then a couple of weeks later, when Gordon told Dad he'd graduated early, he changed so suddenly." Virgil looked enquiringly at his older brother. "Did Gordon ever tell you that he wasn't due to meet up with his unit until early September, Scott?"

A look of surprise crossed the older boy's face for a moment. His reply was so quiet, even in the dead of night, Virgil had to strain to hear it.

"No. So he left a month early? God." He pulled a hand though rough, untidy hair. "I didn't realise Dad actually drove him away."

"He said he didn't want to stay on an island where his own father wouldn't look at him, or speak to him."

"It's understandable." Yet again, for a while the call of an exotic bird was the only thing that broke the silence of the night. A light switched on in the villa, drawing both boys' attention for a moment. "Dad's up."

The eighteen year old nodded his agreement.

"What aren't you telling me, Virge?"

"What makes you think I'm not telling you something?"

"Because you actually got up and came over here, so it must have been to talk, properly. But we've been through Father and Gordon enough times, and every one of those conversations has come to the same conclusion, they'll sort it out in their own time." He sighed.

All of a sudden Virgil rushed out what he was thinking about. "Gordon was deployed earlier in the month."

"What?" Scott almost shouted, just controlling his voice in time. Glancing up at the lit window, he continued in hushed tones. "What do mean he was deployed? You said, you tell me everything. Just slip your mind?"

"I didn't say because I knew you'd react like this. Ahead of you asking, I don't know where he is, he wouldn't say. Just that in November he was put on that advanced training scheme, _and_ you knew about that before you say anything. Then just before Christmas, he called me saying that he'd been assigned somewhere, because his commanding officers were impressed with him, but he couldn't say where. He was really excited, saying that all anyone had ever said was that the best learning experiences actually came from being out there, and doing things; not the few months spent in a class room and swimming pool. That's the last time we spoke together; when we were back in Kansas for the holidays."

"Damn. He's just sixteen, Virge; he shouldn't be out fighting somewhere. I still can't believe Mum signed the forms for him."

"One; he might not be out fighting somewhere. Just because USAF is all about guns, doesn't mean the World Navy is. They're more into peacekeeping, and all. He's probably out on a ship somewhere, sailing the seas and stopping pirates from stealing hidden treasure. Two; actually he's nearly seventeen. And three; Mum would sign anything. If she thought it would make us forgive her for walking out, that is."

Scott grinned, his mood much improved, hiding the worry racking his soul deep down. "You're right. Look, lets go back inside." He glanced at the glowing watch-face on his wrist. "It's nearly midnight, we probably should get some sleep. After all, Father does love to lock us in the sim' at the moment."

Virgil stood up, and held a hand out to his older brother, pulling the twenty year old to his feet. Standing, there was a noticeable difference in height. Scott, tall and muscular, was almost a head taller than his second shortest brother, who found his lack of height to be something his brothers loved to rib him about. Only Alan, at fifteen years old, was shorter, and wouldn't be for long.

Companionably, they walked back up to the villa together and as Scott keyed in the code to open the glass doors to the inside, he turned to Virgil, commenting offhand. "At least we know of one brother who would swim across the ocean to be on this oversized rock, if he didn't have Father to face when he got here however."

Chuckling out loud, Virgil replied, "Yeah, and John even thought about leaving NASA to be here, until they offered him the moon, of course. We should be thankful that we didn't have to tell Dad that we'd decided to not to come here, because a piece of cold rock was more appealing."

Quietly navigating the dark lounge, they made they're way up towards the bedrooms, until Scott put up a hand to stop Virgil outside their father's office.

Inside, two people were having a deep and quite clearly _important_ conversation, and fairly obviously whatever they were discussing, concerned them.


	3. Deployment

**Sorry for the delays. Life got in the way.**

**3. Deployment**

_Route 12, a little before;_

Red and gold burst the skyline, splintering it into silvery shards, and casting long, doubtful shadows onto the burning ground. The yellow and white marked road cracked and fragmented as tonne-weights of rock and steel structure broke away and plunged into the depths of the still water below, leaving twisted, tool-steel rope straining to bear the whole weight of the two separated ends of the Route 12 bridge.

Through the creaks and groans of the tormented steel cables, Tilly Green found her way back to consciousness, the world greeting her in a spinning, mind-dizzying way. Instinct telling the girl to get up, she tried, and failed. An exploding pain in her left wrist and a dead weight across her back stopped her, adding to the fifteen year old's confusion.

A long moment passed, where she was too scared to even breathe, before she realised and sucked air back in, one long, hungry gulp after another. Completely consumed by fear and the negative questions buzzing their way around her head, she would have jumped, petrified, when a dirt-smeared hand came to rest on hers, if she hadn't been pinned down by what ever was on her back, instead she audibly gasped, and turned her head suddenly, to come face to face with a set of worried, green eyes, surrounded by the grime of the explosion. Alex.

"W… what's going on?"

Emotions radiated from Tilly Green, up to her closest friend and companion, where he almost physically felt them against his sweat-sheen skin.

"I think there was an explosion, Til, I don't know. I was so scared when I couldn't find you."

The trapped girl looked up at Alex, as for a moment her own fear moved out, leaving room for her to see his own worries, and there were plenty. Confused, Tilly looked up at him.

"You haven't seen it, Til. I have."

More than a little apprehensive of what might reach her ears, she asked Alex to explain.

"Everything just exploded, and I couldn't see or hear, but when I could see again… It was horrible. The road's split, only a couple of feet I think in most places, but a bus was just above where whatever it was went up; it got thrown, Til, the blast was that strong."

"What happened to it?" She whispered.

Alex Haddon looked about him, glancing at the mentioned vehicle, just out of the trapped girl's view; just out of reach, on the other side of the gaping fissure that had opened on the overpass.

"It's hanging over the edge, between the cables, I don't know how they'll get it back on the bridge. There's upturned cars everywhere too, and I can't find most of the society guys, of those I did find were most hurt. Cuts and broken arms, and stuff." He shuddered, closing his eyes. "It's all such a mess."

Tilly barely heard him though, her mind on the dull throbbing just beginning to leak into her body, and a sinister thought that had entered her head without permission, when he had put such a guilty and almost remorseful voice to his last thought.

"Do you think it's our fault?"

Alex re-opened his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Do you think one of the other society guys did it?"

"No." His answer was all too quick, desperate not to even contemplate the idea, for Tilly to completely believe him.

A rushing muddle of tangled emotions and feelings flooded through the girl's neural pathways, overloading her brain with black and white, sputtering, film-like scenarios, of what might have happened already and what was yet to come.

"How am I going to get out of here?" She whispered, barely audible above the still creaking bridge and growing, panicked cries of other trapped victims.

Alex frowned at her, seeing the steel support beam that lay, trapping his friend, properly for the first time, having ignored everything in his rush to her aid. "I don't know, Til. I can't move this by myself." He indicated towards the shaft before him. The fifteen year old rotated her head to try and look at what it was that was trapping her, glimpsing it through the blurred corner of one eye.

"Oh."

Hating the sheer disappointment conveyed in Tilly's one sound, Alex quickly made up his mind. "I'm going to go and find someone to help. We're on the half of the bridge still attached to Mobridge, so the fire-fighters should be able to get here." He spared a glance for the rest of the stranded victims. "Anyone over there's got a wait on their hands though." He muttered.

Tilly's hand closed around his that still lay upon her own, drawing strength from it's warmth and promise of safety. "Don't go. Please."

"I have to, Til, but I'll be quick. You'll be home before you know it. Honest."

And then he left, dyed black hair clambering over rubble and disappearing between abandoned cars, and small flickering fires, while the trapped girl watched him until she could no longer make him out in the chaos. And then she was alone.

_Jeff Tracy's office, Tracy Island, almost same time;_

'… unconfirmed act of terrorism has led to an explosion on the Route 12 bridge over Lake Oahe, South Dakota. Eyewitness reports state that there was a bomb-like explosion, resulting in the splitting of the roadway that we have heard about. A protest by a Mobridge Society was underway on Route 12 today, when the apparent detonation occurred.

However local rescue services are struggling to access the site, due to the lack of stability on the bridge, and the main volume of casualties are trapped on the side not connected to the nearest town of Mobridge, meaning that emergency personnel will need to travel…'

Jeff Tracy muted the communications panel with a quick button press, and turned to face his engineer and friend.

"I… I, ah, don't know, Mr. Tracy. It's a l… long shot, ah, considering. Maybe d… do-able, I w… would have to do some more, ah, c… calculations to be s… sure though."

"Estimate then, Brains. I don't care how you make your decision, but I need one."

Brains adjusted the thick, blue-rimmed glasses on his nose, and turned back to the muted screen. Blurred and fuzzy images were just beginning to appear, sent through by a local's comm. device from the look of the caption below. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, they could be ready.

Sighing deeply, the young genius answered, "Y… yes."

Jeff's eyebrows rose, but his gaze never wavered from the fidgeting man before him.

"It's p… possible. It would be easier with, ah, a l… larger crew. But that of course c… can't be helped." He added quickly, noting the look beginning to pass across his employer's face. "If we, ah, s… send both 'One' and 'Two' then both Scott and V… Virgil can be on the scene, c… covering all, ah, eventualities. M… maybe, ah, yourself or m… myself could go along, ah, too, for manpower, and t… then, I b… believe, it's do-able."

"Are you sure?"

Brains nodded. "A… almost certainly, Mr. Tracy, sir."

Jeff blinked hard a couple of times, and finished the cold cup of coffee before him, replacing the ceramic mug on the desk.

"Alright, I guess I'd better get the boys up then."

Which was the precise moment Scott Tracy decided to choose to enter their father's study, trailing his eighteen-year-old brother behind him.

Jeff stood abruptly, about to reprimand his eldest on the grounds of disobeying orders to rest, for eaves-dropping and for entering with out permission for starters, but was stopped when his engineer spoke up.

"I g… guess you, ah, don't n… need to get t… them, then."

Jeff Tracy looked positively shocked at the young genius, but said nothing, instead turning to his eldest son. "So, how much did you hear?" His tone was cold, and he stared intently at the twenty year old, waiting for his answer and maybe even his excuses.

"Enough. You want to send us out."

Nodding, and retaking his black, leather seat behind the desk, Jeff Tracy repeated most of the conversation he had just held, omitting the harsher details, such as his own impatience and Brains' misty-blue confusion, neither he nor Brains needed his sons knowing about their less-than-perfect qualities right now.

"You really think it's time? Can you honestly say we're ready?" Scott attempted to stare down his father. His doubts from three years ago, suppressed but never forgotten, began to edge back to the surface, with the impending deployment looming.

"Yes, Scott. We've tested enough, it's time to find out if we've got what it takes."

Frustrated that he wasn't getting anywhere, Scott spun away from his father, instead looking far to the distance, across the rolling waves. In the mean time, Virgil had said nothing, not giving his thoughts away for anything, something his father had noticed, and thought that he might just be able to play to his advantage over his eldest son. Just maybe Virgil wasn't siding with Scott, maybe he wanted to go.

"What do you think, Virgil?" A long, thought-filled and colour-muddled pause reigned. Then the eighteen year old shrugged. "I need more input, son. We have to make a decision."

He replied, levelly, not quite meeting Jeff's gaze,

"You already have, haven't you? No matter what we say, you'll over-rule us, and go ahead as planned anyway."

"So, you don't want to take part?"

"I never said that."

And that was all the confirmation Jeff Tracy needed, a denial of a negative, rather that a confirmation of a positive, as then, plans were made. Short and concise, after all time wasn't available to waste, and all four knew it. Subsequently, One and Two were launched, just a mere ten minutes later; Scott, Virgil and Brains aboard.

_A little later (as International Rescue reaches the Danger Zone), Kennedy Space Centre;_

A transparent, cheap, plastic cup filled with filtered water in one hand, and a piece of dry toast in the other, a tall, slim man, face bordered with almost white-blonde hair, entered the living area of the halls at the Kennedy Space Centre, Florida.

Folding his long frame into one of the soft, navy couches, he balanced the cup on the armrest, and began to nibble the top-most corner of his toasted bread, not really hungry, but having to appear to eat, for the benefit of his position on the flight team. The television set was flickering soft colours across the room, illuminating the side of his colleague's faces, who were intently watching the damn thing, much to his own personal disgust and yet, something caught the corner of his eye.

On screen, a slightly blurred image of a silver, dart-shaped sliver and a mammoth, green ship appeared above what looked like some kind of bridge. It was hard to tell though, through all the static-grey and fuzzy, random lines. Logic said it _had_ to be what he thought.

Making hurried excuses as to his rapid entrance and exit, John Tracy left the living area and headed straight back to his room, from where he immediately put in a call, not to Tracy Island, but to his eldest brother, Scott, wanting answers and wanting them straight and honest.

As it turned out, he did very little of the question asking, and much more of the question answering. He knew the conversation wasn't going to yield the results he wanted; the moment Scott answered his comm. device with,

"Man, I am glad to hear from you, John."

That tone of voice never bode too well, especially when Scott was using it.

Apparently though, as he soon discovered, finally International Rescue was set to make it's public debut and first rescue.


	4. Primary Instigation

**Sorry took so long. Been busy. Having fun on work experience, and all.**

**4. Primary Instigation**

Blaring klaxons started up across the island; sounding through hidden speakers in fake trees and nestled deep in thick, leafy bushes, startling alizarin crimson, malachite and jade tropical birds into frenzied flight, away from the disturbance and threat.

Beneath the island, all was not much more peaceful, as huge hydraulic engines, with churning axels and exploding pistons, worked on constantly altering pressures and volumes of liquids; initiated remotely by Jeff Tracy from up in his office and a button press.

Five hundred millimetre-thick steel partitions slid noisily but slickly away from their normal holding position on the floor of the second-tier swimming pool, opening large, gaping holes in the bottom of the tiled pool. As the spaces increased, four hundred and eighty cubic metres of chlorinated water began rushing down six sloping, copper drainage-pipes, at wild velocities, into the depths of a trio of large tanks off to the side of the original surface level pool.

Brains had spent hours figuring out how to evacuate the water from the pool. Too vertical and the pipes would need to be able to withstand extreme forces due to the high velocity of the water and would be awkward to move, nevertheless in this case the liquid _would_ drain very fast. Many hours in front of a glowing computer screen followed that problem, trying to use CAD design and modelling to find the ideal solution, equating maximum and minimum values to find the answer. Eventually the issue was resolved, with retractable, sloping pipes and plenty of them.

However, once empty, the immense ceramic tub began to shift to the right, below it's smaller sibling. Whirring cogs and shifting pulleys dragged the large structure out of the way of the silver dart-like rocket below, tugging it into a position so that only the blast-shield protected face was next to the launch site of the first of the rocket-propelled rescue fleet.

Cautiously a young man glanced upwards out of the windshield of the aircraft, listening to the thunderous roar of the escaping water, and amazed, watching the pool slide away to reveal blinding sunlight. Flicking a switch on the starboard-side control panel, the smart-glass flickered for a moment before settling into a dark silver tint, effectively removing the glare of the sun from the pilot's eyes.

Scott Tracy had witnessed all of the motion and preparations before, during simulations and test flights, but suddenly, actually preparing to go on a rescue was all that more real, that more dangerous. And if he hadn't been about to make only the third vertical take off in his life (first on the newly repositioned VTOL's, after the last deck-scorching landing) he could have almost been back in the air force about to set off excited, on a new flight-mission, but it just wasn't quite the same.

Flying out with a squadron of trained fighter pilots, hell bent on giving their utmost for people and country… definitely different from what was being planned now.

Twisting a black dial towards a loosely pressed on white tag, reading _'BASE'_, Scott opened communications between himself and his father, back in the island office. After Brains had scrambled out what each comm. frequency linked him to in one of his rapid debriefing sessions after another simulation mishap, Scott had decided it was easier to label the dial (despite his father's claims of compromised security – after all who, having broken into an International Rescue craft, was going to be dim enough to put a call into their headquarters…?) and so had tacked sticky squares with jagged handwriting about the face, stating which arrow position would link him to whom.

It now faced about the two o'clock position on a standard time piece, and the orangey switch next to the comm. controls, was set to audio only. Scott felt he really didn't need his father to _see_ him this flustered, to hear it would be enough.

"Thunderbird One to Island Base."

A momentary pause followed, and then the speakers crackled to life.

"Thunderbird One, this is Island Base. Go ahead."

Thunderbird. Still sounded strange…

_Tracy Island, seventeen months ago, evening time;_

Gordon Tracy pulled himself from the gleaming waters of the second tier pool, and onto the treated wooden decking. He sat there for a while, staring at the cool liquid before a towel was thrown at him from the upper deck.

"We waited till you'd finished, now are you going to join us, or are we just interrupting you and your, er, other half?"

"Well you were kinda interrupting, but…" The red head grabbed the towel and heaved himself to his feet, muscles protesting slightly at the sudden lack of movement after the five-kilometre swim they had just been subjected to.

Having made the U.S. Junior swim team a little over three months ago, the fifteen year old was desperate to prove himself, and get a chance at the open space on the men's team (although deep down he was sure he would never make the cut this fall, maybe next, if there was a place going…), and since he had relocated to the island for the summer, he had spent almost all of his spare time in the pool, practicing length after length, each one deemed not quite good enough by the high standards he had set himself.

Excuses, like the fact that the pool was too short to get a decent length in, weren't allowed to get in the way. Instead they fuelled his already white-hot and burning ambition to succeed, shortening the times that he gave himself for each distance significantly, to give tolerances for the reduced swimming time and extended glides between lengths.

Dripping a shimmering, rainbow coloured pathway behind him, Gordon made his way up to the gathering of brothers around one of the hard plastic tables, setting himself down on the chair John hooked over with his right leg.

"Thanks." He muttered; towel still draped about his shoulders, auburn hair dark with moisture. "So, why we here then?" Instinctively he looked towards Scott, years of experience telling him that it was usually his eldest sibling who called for these conferences, and always this particular brother who chaired them.

The nineteen year old cleared his throat; a student at the USAF Academy about to start his third and final semester, Scott Tracy was a younger image of his powerful father, clear through.

"Actually, it was Alan who wanted us all to talk." All eyes, blue and brown, turned to face the youngest present, who looked down and fiddled with the wet rim of his lemonade glass, wiping the remaining moisture away with his index finger and thumb.

"Well, I was thinking, er, I, well, I mean…"

"Spit it out, Al, why've you gone all shy?" Tactful as ever, Gordon pushed his only younger sibling.

"Shut up, Gordo. Thing is you're all just going to laugh. I forgot that earlier, when I told Scott I wanted to talk to everyone. Now I'm not so sure, I mean, maybe it's just better to leave it…"

"I won't laugh, Alan. Promise." Big blue eyes looked up at Virgil through a curtain of ash blonde hair.

"Really?" The sixteen year old nodded. "Alright then. I just though that maybe, we or even just the rescue crafts needed… well, needed cooler names. I mean the _Liberation Duellers _have _Zephron-Crystal Powered Vehicles_, right? But they never call them that; they call them _Phoenix, Dragon, Griffin, Thunderbird _and _Sphinx_."

Alan looked hopefully around at the circle of gathered brothers, hoping that they wouldn't laugh, especially Gordon, as he'd never hear the end of it. At the same time, Scott Tracy really did try hard not to show his exasperation with Alan, but it didn't go unnoticed by all.

Filling the void before Scott could explode at the youngest Tracy sibling, John said,

"You know what? I agree with Sprout. International Rescue Craft One is a bit of a mouthful at the best of times. It's never really going to become a hit with the press, and all."

Scott, stopped in his tracks by John, gave the seventeen year old a long, eyebrows raised glance, and then gave up. Sometimes, but not very often, it really was a case of, '_if you can't beat 'em, join 'em_'.

A protracted discussion followed, considering the merits of every name the five boys could possibly come up with, until Virgil started to get bored.

"Look, guys. We're going round in circles. I say we call them Thunderbirds and be done with it. Everyone liked that name; it's got military background for Scott, Trouble reckons there's some type of sailboat named the same, it's in Alan's _Liberation Duellers_, John will agree with anything and it's got really interesting mythical roots. What do you say?"

Almost identical looks were shared around the circle of teenagers, before the eldest took charge again.

"Alright then, who votes for 'Thunderbirds'?"

Four hands were raised around him.

Suddenly grinning, though with no idea why, Scott finalised the decision.

"The '_aye_'s have it then. Welcome to the Thunderbirds, boys."

_Present time, back in Thunderbird One;_

And so it came to be that Scott Tracy was sitting inside a Thunderbird, ready to start the launch process, and set off a motion of cogs that was irreversible and entirely unstoppable.

It wouldn't have been so out of place, nor untrue, to have said something movie-like, such as 'after this nothing will ever be the same', but as always, the eldest son of America's quickest self-made billionaire, Jeff Tracy, Scott was nothing if not professional.

"Running pre-flight diagnostics." A pause whilst the on-board computer checked and re-checked each system aboard, before flashing up it's results on the smart-glass windshield. "Pre-flight diagnostics show green across the board. Waiting for confirmation from Island Base, before initiating engine start-up."

Having followed procedures to text-book preciseness, Scott began to tap his fingers across the armrest, as he waiting anxiously for news from his father, who no doubt would be checking every confirmation; he received a duplicate of the information from each and every Thunderbird on his desktop screen for this very purpose.

"Pre-flight diagnostics confirmed. You are clear to begin engine sequence, Thunderbird One."

Finally came the part that the twenty year old had been waiting for. With a smile plastered across his face, Scott Tracy started up the silver rockets huge power source, ready to send her soaring into the cloud-speckled sky.

Flight controls green. Set primary fuels pumps. Start main engines….

Scott Tracy ran through the checklist in his head, mentally placing a oversized luminous, green tick next to each passed component, just like he had in simulations hundreds of times before. Nothing could be overlooked, nothing missed; as for this time lives really were at stake, one check overlooked wouldn't result in a red-lettered _GAME OVER _this time, but something much more final.

Below him, VTOL jets began to roar to life, expelling tens of cubic metres of burnt fuel a second, creating wafting plumes of intermediate, grey smoke that swirled upwards towards the opening where the swimming pool had been just moments before. Feeling the power building up below him, literally tingle through the whole craft and his very being; and knowing in the back of his mind, how his father would later lecture him on how uneconomical it was to run the craft on the take-off engines, Scott prepared to launch.

"Thunderbird One, preparing for take-off."

Another few toggled switches and settings, and the onboard computer replied,

"_Launch Sequence in Stage Two."_

All he needed was the agreement of his father, which came just moments later, and then the silver dart would rip into the skies, tearing the air clean in two, sucking the atmosphere back in behind it, in it's wake.

"Thunderbird One, you are clear for take-off. God-speed and fly safe, son. Thunderbirds are go."


	5. Moving Forwards

**5. Moving Forwards**

_Thunderbird Two, Tracy Island Hanger;_

He'd been right when he'd assumed that there was no choice, and that his all-powerful father really had already made up his mind. Just as well that Virgil Tracy _did_ want to go.

That was why, Virgil supposed, that he had just sprinted down the lower corridors of Tracy Island Villa, through the hissing muddle that was the underground, island laboratories and across the boarding gantry onto Thunderbird Two, an engineer, with slight of build and bulky, blue glasses, hot on his heels.

Gasping for breath, having not run like that since school had kicked everyone out for the long, hot summer, he said to his only companion,

"Really need… to find an… easier way to get… here…" He looked around, grinning at the wheezing man beside him. "Don't… you think?"

All Brains could manage was an awkward nod, as he flopped into the co-pilot chair and began switching systems to online status, control boards lighting up like Virgil's grandmother made the tree do, at Christmas. Imitating his partner, the eighteen year old sat down, his breathing just about under control, to help start up the massive machine.

"Thunderbird Two, to Island Base."

There was a long pause, which was filled with Brains' quiet mumblings as he brought up the pre-flight programme, that would initiate each system individually to check for faults, whilst cutting out everything non-essential at the same time, to prevent as many problems as possible from arising, and any chain reactions from being initiated.

Finally, a reply was made.

"Thunderbird Two, this is Island Base. Requesting a stop on flight-checks whilst Thunderbird One launches."

Jeff Tracy really was nervous, and his middle son could sense it. Obviously his father was meticulously checking everything, but it was annoying, all he wanted to do was get going, not wait for Scott to get his act together and lift off.

But knowing that his father didn't want to, nor need to hear his personal whines and complaints, Virgil replied professionally and levelly,

"F.A.B. Awaiting further instructions."

John's sarcastic comments to Scott, a few long and distant summers ago, when the ideas had first been formed for International Rescue, had stuck among the boys. Slowly they were making the organisation their own, what with the new names and changed affirmative. Would almost be a shame for outsiders to be enlisted in, but it really didn't take a rocket-scientist to figure that the two boys couldn't manage alone, seeing as John, Gordon and Alan could be a long time in coming.

With time to fill, and not wanting to dwell on more difficult and emotionally tangled matters, Virgil rotated around in his chair, left knee pressed up against the soft material, to face Brains.

"You said to Dad, that we were ready?"

"Hmm?" Brains looked away from the computer screen.

"Do you really believe that?"

To be honest there really wasn't a simple answer; the machines were ready, that was certain, but the crew…? A slightly less stable ground that one. But knowing that his young companion and co-worker didn't need to hear his concerns, Brains said,

"Of course, ah, V… Virgil. I wouldn't, ah, have s… said so, otherwise."

Seemingly comforted by that response, Virgil went back to safer ground; the weather for instance, whilst Brains contemplated how much damage the little, white lie, just told, could cause if things went wrong.

Mid-sentence, their conversation was stopped though, a soft but penetrating rumbling seeking out the occupants of Thunderbird Two, hidden safely inside the bulky machine's operations centre.

"What's that?"

"T… Thunderbird One, ah, launching."

"Oh. Well, I guess it'll be our turn soon then." Disappointed that his brother had launched so far ahead of his own craft, Virgil returned to silence, waiting for the call to tell him, it was his turn.

Eventually a gentle bleep was heard throughout the cockpit of the gigantic craft and it's passengers accepted the incoming transmission by a flicked switch, opening communications.

"Island Base, to Thunderbird Two."

"Thunderbird Two receiving. Scott's away then?"

"Yes." His father missed the dejected tone in his voice, continuing with all he military precision he held, borne of many long years in the Air Force. "Continue pre-flight diagnostics, Thunderbird Two."

"F.A.B."

The checks passed off cleanly, all systems ready to go.

"Begin Launch Sequence Stage One."

Inside the safety of the villa, Jeff Tracy remotely activated the cliff-side mechanisms, and Virgil audibly gasped in appreciation, as for the first time he saw, heard and felt the huge cliff-face seemingly fall away from in front of him; like the reaching of the biggest climatic point in a piece of traditional, classical music, sending tremors of wonder through his very being.

All previous flights had been started with Thunderbird Two already on the launch ramp, waiting to be tilted into the blue heavens. This time the eighteen year old saw all of the action, heard the huge island back-generators roar to life, powering the shaking engines that ran the lowering mechanism, and saw the ground literally swallow itself, taking the sheet of cliff deep down below sea-level.

"Ready?"

"I… indeed."

Another toggled switch and the enormous craft began to slide forwards on pre-set pathways, a launch-base moving on wide tracks (like those used on Armed Forces Tanks), into the blinding sunlight and beautiful tropical day. Virgil Tracy began humming to himself, allowing the pure pleasure and excitement of the monumental event about to happen wash over him, sweeping any doubts well and truly under the carpet.

A jolt and a steady horizon, indicated that the craft was in it's launch position.

"Requesting permission to begin Launch Sequence Stage Two."

"Permission granted, Thunderbird Two."

With a grin on his face that could be heard when he spoke, Virgil replied. "Commencing main engine start-up."

Below the two young men, the engines sparked into life, gulping gallons of fuel into the pumps a second, thrusting out cleaned products of steam and nitrogen through the vents in the side of the engine bay. The jets at the rear glowed deep crimson, heating up in seconds, ready to push the craft out of it's holding position.

"_Main engine sequence completed._" Came the automated reply, from the onboard computer.

"A… activating the, ah, a… anti-detection shielding." More systems whirred to life inside the Thunderbird, hiding it from the eyes of the rest of the world, making it almost impossible to track this member of the rescue fleet.

With all systems flashing green, and content that they were ready to go, Virgil asked for permission to really get the rescue underway, to launch the equipment-baring, essential craft into the skies.

"You are good to go, Thunderbird Two. Initiate Launch Sequence Stage Three."

"F.A.B."

The cockpit shook as giant metal-alloy clamps settled around the tracks of the carrier section of Thunderbird Two, that had been used to move it out from the hidden hanger, and then the horizon began to shift, the merging view of sea and sky, changing to just that of limitless blue, where they were headed.

With green vessel tilted upwards at nearly fifty degrees southwest, the jets reached further, into a new phase, building up enough power to lift the seemingly impossible aircraft, off. As the power indicator hit red, the screeching of the engines was deafening, and still Virgil let it rise, until it seemed that if the energy wasn't harness and used, that it would blow the world away outwards, starting on a little patch of land in the Pacific Ocean.

And then, the eighteen year old pushed the throttle up, to maximum thrust, urging the beast to fly, to move forward and take to the skies… and that it did.

Slowly Thunderbird Two moved forward, edging closer to the edge of the platform, and just when it seemed it would fall and fail in it's plight, it launched, pushing upwards for the black nothingness of space, for what seemed like an eternity, before Virgil manipulated the controls, bringing the green creature, with it's backwards wings and stubby nose, into a vertical flight path, thousands of feet in the air.

The young pilot couldn't help but release a whoop of excitement and adrenaline.

"Watch out, Scott. We're on our way, too."

And then he pushed the throttle forwards, back to maximum thrust, in hot pursuit of his oldest brother and towards a bridge full of people in need.

_Route 12, around the same time;_

A patch of dyed black hair scampered back over the rubble, evading grasping arms and shouted warnings that followed him back to the heart of the explosion wreckage. Crouching down beside the trapped form of his best friend, he stoked a hand along her arm, and waited for her to crack open deep, brown eyes.

"Til. Hey, Til." He fussed quietly. "Wake up, Tilly."

Slowly the fifteen year old woke up again, having drifted off waiting for her friend to return.

"Alex, did you get anyone?" She questioned, awareness coming back to her in short, sharp bursts. "Where are they, Alex? Where is everyone?"

From her enclosed prison between the bridge and rubble, Tilly Green could see little of her surroundings, but knew that for some reason her best friend had failed her, that he hadn't brought the promised help.

"I'm sorry, Til. They said the bridge wasn't stable, that they couldn't go out onto it yet, not until some other equipment arrives to help support it from beneath. And then they said they couldn't just go jumping in, that they have to work systematically across the bridge, to make sure they get everyone, but they'd be there as soon as they could reach us. I thought they'd come, if they knew that someone really needed their help."

Almost resigned to her fate, to stay beneath the wreckage, Tilly said,

"Maybe they would've come, if it was safe."

For a moment, she closed her eyes, trying to shut out the noises of the area that filled her mind, and twisted her own thoughts about. Then she realised what had been bothering her most.

"If they said it wasn't safe, why are you here, Al?" And then, becoming more anxious as every second passed, "You've got to go, Alex. Now. Before something else happens, and you get hurt."

"I'm not leaving."

Sitting down beside the fifteen year old girl, Alex took her hand in his, holding it close, squeezing it, letting her know that everything would be okay; when he wasn't really all that sure that it would be, as cloudy, disguised doubts crept into his vision.

But it was all he had to offer. A hope and a prayer.

_Russell Springs, Kansas (as International Rescue reaches the danger zone);_

Fifteen years old, Alan Tracy was fed up with life.

Two of his brothers were training, out on a tropical island, ready to join up to a world rescue organisation, and his father wouldn't let him join them; his second eldest brother was off at the Kennedy Space Centre learning to be an astronaut; and worst of all, his best friend and closest brother, had gone and left him last summer to go and join the damn World Navy.

And then, just when he thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, his grandmother had announced that she was cooking a beef stew recipe, she'd found in a dust-covered binder earlier that day, for dinner. Just peachy, huh?

Kicking the pine door of his bedroom closed with his trailing foot, Alan slung his school rucksack down in the corner, and flopped onto the pillowed end of his bed, where all of his bedding (duvet, blanket and sheet included) had gathered, in small heap, and switched on the television.

Channel flicking, he searched for something of interest to pass the time.

Sitcom; not bad. Documentary; boring. Cartoon; childish. News; ultra-boring. Football; real possibility.

Wait. Suddenly sitting up straight, Alan turned back to the news, scrubbing blonde hair out of his eyes. No way.

"…_to an explosion on the Route 12 bridge over Lake Oahe, South Dakota. Eyewitness reports state that there was a bomb-like explosion, resulting in the splitting of the roadway that we spoke about earlier. _

_But breaking news now, there are strange and unidentified aircrafts in the skies above the accident area, which seemingly appear to be here to offer aid. More news as we get…"_

Blue eyes widened in disbelief. Yet again; no way. There on the screen, fuzzy pictures of the two rescue craft he knew existed in the hanger under his family's island. Just now, clearly they weren't still in the middle of the Pacific.

Scrambling for his bag, the fifteen year old emptied it's contents on the floor, and pushing books and pens about, found his comm. device. Finding the entry he wanted, with long practiced ease, Alan was about to press the send button, when he remembered… Gordon couldn't (and probably _wouldn't_ as far as he was concerned) answer.

Damn.

Defeated, he flopped back on his bed, thumbing up the volume using the remote control, and laid back, staring at the bobbled, white ceiling, listening to events unfold, waiting for his formidable grandmother to shout up the stairs to turn the darn racket off.

He'd been wrong. Life really could get worse, and found new ways _everyday_ to shove it right in his face. Tomorrow, when everyone would be talking about the events unfolding a little way off, in another part of the States, he couldn't say a thing, forbidden by his father, and anyway, who'd have believed him if he did.


	6. Jealousy and Dreams

**6. Jealousy and Dreams**

Pointed in the direction of South Dakota, the United States of America; Thunderbird One and it's single crew member was making good time on it's first proper outing. Following the shortest path jumping straight across time zones, lengthening the day by almost twice it's original span, meant that the journey was short and nearly sweet.

Behind Scott Tracy, huge power sources created energy through the nuclear fusion of materials. Until recently, the mysteries of reducing the energy expenditure in fusion reactions remained at the same level of understanding as it did in the early part of the twenty-first century. In fact, scientists around the world were still trying to fathom the finer details and points of the source now pushing Thunderbird One through the skies, and were blissfully unaware that someone else had already conquered their own private nemesis.

Brains, the Tracy family and International Rescue's own personal engineer, had broken through the barriers holding development back, releasing new possibilities for inexpensive and plentiful supplies of fuel. Plus, the energy produced was such as that of the sun and other stars, using the same reactions, and making it strong enough to lift even the monster of Two into the air.

The short hop across the Pacific Ocean and half of North America, wasn't ever going to take too long in a craft travelling at a little over twelve thousand miles an hour, but Scott was surprised that he had the edge of Oregon on his horizon before his father called through from base.

The time lapse between communications wasn't to last long though, and was broken with the impatient beeping of a system coming from just off to Scott's right.

"Island Base to Thunderbird One."

Feeling less flustered and much more in control, Scott opened both audio and visual communications this time around with his father. A small portion of the windscreen (to the left and a little below central) blurred out the view, changing to black and then a live video feed.

"Island Base, this is Thunderbird One receiving."

"How's it going, Son?"

A quick glance at the constantly updating and changing, telemetry and out of the windshield,

"Fine, Father. All systems are operating to their maximum, and Oregon is almost below. How's Virgil?"

"Thunderbird Two got away without any problems, just a moment ago. Their ETA is forty-eight minutes according to Virgil."

"You sure it was just forty-eight minutes?"

"Yes, any reason why it shouldn't be, Scott?"

_Only that Virgil's always a stickler for details_, he thought, but maybe it was the nerves. Everyone was acting a little out of sorts, and all. Besides, why should it really matter all that much to Scott?

"No, sir."

"Good. What's Thunderbird One's ETA?"

Another look at the information on screens before him, and a quick calculation later;

"Approximately ten minutes, sir."

"Good. Let me know when you're there, Scott."

"FAB." And then the screen went black, before dissolving back into the mixed blue and smudged cloud-white of the sky. Scott sat back against his chair, altered the controls a little, and let the computer systems kick in and keep Thunderbird One level, whilst he let his mind wander and set about figuring out how the hell they were meant to save those people.

_Thunderbird Two, just after launch;_

Ever since he could remember, Scott had always got the coolest things. The fastest remote control aeroplanes, the computer with the most processing power (if you didn't count John's illegal upgrades…); he'd always got the best gifts out of the all the boys.

Okay, so Virgil couldn't complain. His father had always done his best to provide him with the most expensive art materials, and had very recently brought him that baby grand piano that now stood in the lounge of Tracy Villa, and after all, he _could_ be in Gordon's position; but he couldn't help but feel that yet again, he'd lost out to the perfect heir.

Here he was, sitting in what was easily the biggest aircraft ever made, and instead of being his own master, he was flying out to do the dirty work of his eldest brother, who currently was soaring through the sky in a supersonic, silver dart; about to grace the world for the first time with the majesty of International Rescue, his father's personal gift to the helpless and damned of Earth.

Yes, indeed. Life didn't seem all that great to Virgil Tracy right about then.

Brains seemed to have picked up on his companion's discontent and had mentioned something about checking the primary data coming from the fusion tanks back at the rear of the colossal craft, and had left the eighteen year old by himself, to keep Thunderbird Two in the air and on course.

He never had been too great at dealing with his own emotions, let alone another's; so Virgil supposed he couldn't blame the young genius for making his excuses and getting out of the cockpit, and away from the obvious swirling, black cloud hanging above Virgil's head.

Glancing at the continuously scrolling lists of red-lighted information before him, and the small blinking green dot on the radar map, Virgil sighed. Fifty minutes had never pasted so slowly… except maybe that once, when he was sitting on the cold, fading plastic bench at the side of his first soccer match, back in seventh grade. Promised a run out for the last twenty minutes, during a pre-season game, knowing that his father had made a special effort and was sitting in amongst the other parents at the pitch side, his brothers beside him, Virgil couldn't wait for his moment to come back then.

That time, he'd had to wait longer than promised, his coach not ready to let him go out against the larger eighth-graders from Colby Junior, but he _had _been given his chance that day, and had never once looked back. Today there would be no waiting though. No coach concerned that he was too young (just maybe a worried engineer and a father, but that was different).

After all, this time people weren't going to just be pleasantly surprised if he showed up; they were counting on him.

_Thunderbird One, Danger Zone, South Dakota;_

As the grandiose form of Thunderbird One reached the danger zone, Scott Tracy (one hand on the stick, the other hovering above the control panel, having not quite made it to it's destination) stared, dumbstruck out of the electronically tinted windshield. But even the brown-ed out glass couldn't hide the devastation and mess below him. The bridge on Route 12 was splintered down the centre, the road cut into two parts, a gash running across it's four lane width, totally separating all but a couple of hundred metres of the road from Mobridge.

The television images hadn't done the scene justice in any way, shape or form; twisted metal of car body-work lay strewn across the carriageway, and faint outlines of people could be seen as black-ish splashes on the grey tarmac, as they moved about, trying their best to offer help and comfort, or escape from the bridge that had become a very real nightmare.

Thunderbird One hovered above the zone as Scott surveyed the damage. The reports had mentioned a bus… and there it was. Hanging, precariously balanced on the edge of the broken road, it's green and yellow paint scratched along it's length, where metal tension ropes from the bridge had caught and snagged it. Only one of them had been quite strong enough to stop it's race for the edge, tangled about the rear axle, snapped off from the base holding unit, it was the life-line for those aboard.

Oh, well… nothing for it really.

"Thunderbird One to Island Base."

"This is Island Base receiving."

"I'm over the danger zone, Father."

"Right, prepare to land, Scott. I'll inform Virgil and contact you when I know his ETA. Make contact with whoever is in charge, find a place for Thunderbird Two to land, and start to organise the rescue procedure. I want you ready to go as soon as the rest of the crew get there."

So not much then, but…

"FAB."

And that was it, no turning back now. However, just as Scott was about to initiate the landing procedure, and fire up the VTOL engines, his trouser pocket began to vibrate. Pulling out his comm. device the twenty year old frowned at the screen and then keyed the answer button.

The screen was filled with the image of an amused, blonde man. Scott raised an eyebrow, knowing that the man would get his meaning and _still_ probably not tell what was so funny.

"Man, am I glad to hear from you, John."

"Nice to know I'm missed." A small, sarcastic smile played across John's face momentarily, but the strangeness of Scott's greeting hadn't passed by totally unnoticed, and the smile disappeared as quickly as it had come.

_Route 12, as Thunderbird One arrives;_

Still holding the rebellious, fifteen year old's hand, Alex Haddon raised his eye's skywards, along with the rest of those gathered as the deafening roar of a rocket-propelled craft made itself known.

And just as the noise had appeared from nowhere, suddenly a silver dart was in the sky above them, hovering effortlessly, reflecting sunlight down on to the terrible spectacle below it. Shielding his eyes from the glare, Alex continued to stare upwards, unconsciously squeezing Tilly's hand tighter.

The noise and physical contact slowly roused the injured girl, who didn't open her eyes, but murmured,

"What's going on, Alex?"

Startled by his friend's voice, the boy jumped before leaning down close to her, on the cold, crumpled and pitted tarmac.

"What did you say, Til?"

"What's going on?"

Alex stared upwards again, at the aircraft that was still hovering above the area, seemingly with no intention to move or alter it's position at all. Strange, huh…?

"I don't know. There's this aeroplane above us… but I don't know where it's come from. I've never seen anything like it."

Tilly cracked open her eyes, blinked a couple of times, and then looked up at Alex, deep brown boring into his mind.

"What's it like?"

Never taking his eyes from Thunderbird One, he was about to reply, when (unbeknownst to him) Scott finished talking to John, and began to descend, as gracefully as he had appeared.

"It's a…" He strained against the reflected light on it's hull to see. "… a 'Thunderbird'?"

Scorching red letters depicted it's name, painted along the length of the silver-grey jet, and were sent around the world in that instant. Televised pictures were broadcast to the world, showing the extraordinary aeroplane in it's full maiden-rescue glory, and would be the only clear images the world were ever to see. Even then, they would later be locked away, hidden by a loyal few inside the United Nations Government, leaving only mythically laced descriptions for the world to leech from.

But that was all to come further into the future, after all.

"A 'Thunderbird'?"

"Yeah…"

Not knowing whether this strange, new twist in the day's events was going to bring help or harm, Alex closed the distance between himself and Tilly Green, prepared to shield her with himself, if it ever came to it. Nothing more was going to harm his friend and companion.


	7. Dangerous Illusions

**7. Dangerous Illusions **

Tarmac sizzled and bubbled beneath burning hot engines as Thunderbird One settled onto the road linking up to Route 12, and the danger zone. Seven, navy-uniform clad, troopers of the South Dakota Highway Patrol, upon the orders of the Pierre District Captain, advanced towards the unknown craft, side arms drawn and levelled at chest-height.

The craft had arrived too suddenly for any real sort of armed guard to be present, to protect the public, or whatever; it's unnoticed approach, to those in attendance, made it warrant extreme caution from all those around.

For a long moment, the group of armed men stood still, gaze fixed on the silver bodywork, waiting for the possibly illegal party to make the first move. And their patience was not tested for too long.

The sound of whirring and sliding machinery greeted their ears, as they saw a hatch lower effortlessly downwards from the underside of the 'Thunderbird'. From it a series of shining, metallic steps lowered themselves, creating an easy route down to ground level for those within. The troopers trained their guns towards the new target presented to them, holding their breath, and waiting for a development.

To their ears, not knowing whether the craft brought aid or more trouble, the sound of Scott Tracy's booted feet clanging against the metal steps was deafeningly loud, and his descent from within the craft dragged time slowly.

One man, with dark hair and piercing green eyes, stepped forward, his cold, heavy firearm held firm and steady between both hands,

"Unidentified persons, by the order of the South Dakota Highway Patrol, you are ordered to leave your craft, with your hands on your head immediately."

_Oh crap. _This was just one of the things that Scott had been talking to John about, fearing that the Mobridge Law Enforcement wouldn't take kindly to an unknown rescue service just dropping down on the scene of a local disaster, having been completely off radar for the duration of the short journey there. Time to face the music though, he guessed.

Both hands placed firmly on the back of his head, the eldest Tracy son slowly took the last few steps down to ground level, and turned cautiously towards the origin of the voice he had heard. Behind the small group of armed troopers, he could see more police with the other emergency services, and behind them, cordoned off from the site, intrigued and worried public, straining to glimpse the craft that had come like rain, down from nowhere in the skies.

"How many of you are there aboard?" The sharp voice barked.

"Only myself."

The dark-haired man frowned at him now, having been convinced there would be more on the craft. "Just yourself? Are you sure? We will search your craft if we need to."

"Yes, I'm sure, and no, you won't be searching her. There's another craft following though, about thirty-five minutes away, with two aboard."

Not giving anything away, although startled slightly by the commanding tone the man before him used, and his sureness that the aircraft wouldn't be searched, the Senior Trooper continued,

"Step away from the craft, but keep your hands where they are." Scott Tracy complied, without a word. "What's your name?"

"Scott."

"Scott what?"

"I can't tell you; that's classified information."

"Classified, my ass. You'll damn well tell me, _and_ you're gonna tell me what the hell you're doing showing up in _that_…" He nodded his head slightly towards Thunderbird One. "… at a local accident scene."

Scott almost smiled, but held his face still, just. This guy was comparable to all the other members of the police that he'd met at the Air Force, a can't-be-damned-but-it-pays-well attitude to the job, hidden beneath shouted orders, and a crude manipulation of their native language.

"I can't tell you my name, but I'm here as the Field Commander of International Rescue. I set up and secure an area, ready for the rest of my team."

"International Rescue, what in God's name is that?"

Scott sighed a little, and almost ran a hand through his hair instinctively, before he caught himself in time, leaving his hands firmly resting on his head. He'd always known there'd be some explanations to give after all; only he hadn't expected them to be at the business end of a grey gun barrel.

"It's a newly formed rescue organisation for the world, to give a helping hand when it's needed, and all. You won't have heard of us, 'cause well, you're our first mission, to be honest."

"So you're here to help?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"Just… just hold on a moment."

And then the man lowered his gun, and turned on his heel, breaking through the men behind him, towards the State vehicles located a little behind. The others stayed still, side arms still pointing at Scott, who had no desire to move either right about then; after all, his self-preservation instincts were finely honed with four younger brothers.

_Jeff's Office, Tracy Island, around the same time;_

Seated behind his beech-wood desk, Jeff Tracy sipped on his fourth cup of coffee since his sons and engineer launched towards the United States of America. Before him, beige, doubled-over folders sat on the desk, annotated and scribbled on printouts inside of them, words and diagrams that he thought might help his boys.

Lost in swirling thoughts, and sluggish coffee-dregs, Jeff was startled by the comm. system on his desk as it began to bleep, flashing glowing, blue letters across it's screen. Mashing the green button on it's fascia, the screen flashed black, and then onto a live image of his second eldest son.

"John."

"Father."

"I'm guessing you've heard?" Jeff's tone was almost frosty towards the son who'd abandoned the dream of world-aid, for a promised moon-flight; but seeing so much of himself within the boy, he couldn't quite bring himself to shut John out completely.

"Yeah." John paused, breaking eye contact with his father. "And I've spoken to Scott."

"Really?" John looked back up at this point, his father sounding genuinely interested in what he may have to say.

"He's a little… well, concerned."

"Concerned?" Jeff frowned, his previous intrigue forgotten. "I know John, but we've spoken already. I really don't have time for this."

"No, not about the rescue. Well, it is about the rescue. Just… please, hear me out."

Jeff waved his hand towards the screen, and his son.

"Continue, John, but make this quick."

"Right. Well, Scott's been thinking, and so have I. Maybe just dropping down on a local crisis isn't the smartest idea ever. I mean, reading between the lines from what I've heard on the news, it looks like this wasn't a freak act of nature, and if _I_ was in charge, I wouldn't be happy with a rocket-ship appearing from nowhere, with the _apparent_ promise of aid, and absolutely no evidence to back this claim."

There was a silence between the two men for a while, before the elder of the pair fractured, shattered, it.

"I see. Well I'll get on to the relevant authorities, and explain to them our intent." John nodded. "Thank you for the warning."

"I'm just passing on a message. When you next hear from them, tell Scott and Virge good luck from me."

"Sure, John."

And then the connection was cut with a swift button press, the comm. screen returning to it's previous jet black state, idly awaiting the next call.

Jeff sat back, leaning against the barely worn, leather back of his chair, gathering his criss-crossing thoughts. Obviously he always knew in the back of his mind, from the moment he'd properly looked at the news feed, that this had been no strange accident, but an intentional act by someone, though he hadn't really contemplated the consequences that this drew out; that was until John had actually said his fears aloud.

If this _was_ a terrorist act, what had he just unknowingly sent two of his sons into…?

But right now, there was no time for pensive mulling over of the situation; they were in it now, whether they wanted to be or not, and the patriarch of the Tracy family had a very important call to be making.

Turning back to the workstation on the desk before him, Jeff logged back into the International Rescue operating system, and accessed the Internet, through an untraceable link-up of external networks, routers and a large number of access boxes, courtesy of the combined efforts of John and Brains.

From the secure link, he searched through the Highway Patrol website, down through the branches to the South Dakota Division, until he found the local number of the patrol office, which he scribbled down, and then called.

A sandy haired woman, with dark eyes and speckled glasses answered the call. Early twenties in age, she smiled broadly at Jeff.

"Hello, this is the South Dakota Highway Patrol Office, Helen speaking. How can I help you, sir?"

"I need to talk to your Major, immediately."

The smile fell from the girl's face, and she frowned slightly at the man on the screen before her.

"I'm afraid Major Ruston is a little busy right now, and unavailable to take a call. If I could take your name, and…"

Placing his palms flat down on the desk, Jeff stood and leaned in closer to the screen, causing the girl on the other end to back away slightly.

"I don't care what he's doing, I need to speak to him right away."

"As I said, _sir_, Major Ruston is unavailable, now if you'd just give me your details, I'll ask him to give you a call back at his earliest convenience."

Jeff remained standing, and just about kept his voice level and calm.

"I need to speak with Major Ruston about the accident on Route 12. It's imperative that I can talk to him immediately."

Helen continued to frown at the screen, opening her mouth and then closing it again, before finally deciding what to say. Suspiciously, she continued,

"What do you know about Route 12?"

"Something that can _only_ be told to someone in a suitable position of authority."

Wondering what this man could possibly need to tell the Major about, considering the alleged reports of an explosion, the girl weighed up her options. Major Ruston had said explicitly he was not to be disturbed, even for an invasion of little, green men from Mars; twisting a strand of hair around her index finger, the girl bit her lower lip in thought.

"I _could_ put you through to Captain Moores?"

Just knowing that he had to speak to someone, before those who were supposed to be protecting the public put one of his sons in serious danger, Jeff agreed, and watched as the girl pressed a button and the screen switched to a spinning logo of the Highway Patrol, a visual hold tone. A few moments later, the comm. changed to a live picture of a uniformed man, sat behind a large, metal desk.

"Captain Jack Moores. How can I help, sir?"

"I have some important information that I think you need to know…"

_Thunderbird One, Danger Zone, South Dakota;_

The young man returned, a much less imposing look on his face, slipping back through the others surrounding the gleaming hull of Thunderbird One; the first thing Scott noticing that his gun had been holstered and put securely away. The trooper walked straight up to the surprised, young man, and held out his now empty hand.

"Senior Trooper Edwards, sir."

Scott took the proffered hand, and a firm handshake was exchanged between the two men.

"I've been told to extend our welcome and gratitude to you and your team. My senior has just spoken with yours, and it seems, well, I was gonna say you're all legit', but I'm not too sure that's the case. We're damn-well thankful that you're here, though."

Scott grinned at the man. "Thanks, and well, leave me out of the politics too. I'm just being paid well."

"Looks like we've got a lot in common then, sir. Maybe you'd like to speak to our man in charge, on scene, and the Fire Chief over there?" Edwards gestured towards an area, behind the men still holding their firearms. "Put them away, guys. We're not gonna be needing them today."


	8. Imperfections

**Edits to come.**

**8. Imperfections**

_On board Thunderbird Two, just outside the Danger Zone;_

Thunderously deafening, engines growled, full-toned and vivid from deep within the cavernous fuselage of Thunderbird Two, as it carved out a hole in the sky, rushing through the clear, blue matter towards it's sister ship.

A mere handful of minutes away from the danger zone, the elephantine craft's pilot eased the comm. dial around to face Thunderbird One's frequency, hoping his eldest brother would still be in the vicinity of the silver, arrow-like jet.

"Thunderbird Two, to Thunderbird One."

Waiting for a reply, Virgil glanced over his instruments, and behind him, into the cockpit. Brains, still, was yet to emerge after Virgil's suppressed emotions had almost got the better of the young boy. Still, he wasn't really to be blamed, and now he just felt, well… damn rotten about the whole thing anyway.

"Thunderbird Two, this is Thunderbird One receiving."

Virgil was startled out of his self-penitence, as the comm. screen altered itself to show Scott's face, along with jerky, stop-and-go movement of the image.

"Scott, what's up with Thunderbird One? It looks like you're back learning clutch-control, or something."

Scott's face soured slightly, as he replied,

"Shut up, wiseass. I'm walking back towards One right now; I'm just trying out the new watch comm. devices. Is Brains there? I reckon he'd like to see how they're working. Anyway, I've just been visiting the cheerful guys in charge out here. Got a gunpoint welcome too, to add to that."

Virgil's mouth opened to question his brother, but a single look through the video feed told him not to bother. That was something to be discussed later, possibly over a night drink out in the glowing light of the upper pool deck.

"Nah, Brains has gone to check on fusion tanks' primary data."

"So why'd you call in the first place, Virge?"

"Just to let you know our ETA is now seven point four minutes. In fact, you should start to hear us anytime now."

A boyish grin, full of teeth, promised excitement and adventure flashed across the eighteen year old's face.

"F.A.B. There's an open field just a little way across from Route 12. You can put Two down there, whilst we smooth out the finer points of our plan of action."

"Sure thing, Scott. See you in few. Thunderbird Two out."

_Route 12, as Thunderbird Two approaches;_

Dirt-slicked and scared, Alex Haddon sat beside his stricken friend, still holding her hand tightly, despite her peacefully unconscious state, staring out at the skies.

Just moments before, he'd witnessed, wide-eyed and stunned, a supersonic aeroplane appear from nowhere, and now the heavens were literally shaking, rumbling with power and majesty, energy bubbling into waves from an unknown source, and with no final destination to evaporate and disperse into.

"Til? Tilly?"

He shook the girl's form, but was met yet again with no response, only even, quietly spaced breathing. Beginning to wonder if there was any point in his staying; his friend unknowing of his presence, and possibly dying, Alex knew his place was right there where he sat, when the sky above him darkened, changing to deep, myrtle green before his eyes.

"Oh, shit."

Metallic, green hull plating stared back at the teenage boy from thousands of feet in the air, but the way that it covered the whole sky, made it seem as though the beast were close enough for him to stand, reach up and brush his fingers along the plating joints. From it's stationary point in the sky, the craft washed powerful torrents of air over the area below, despite it's height above them.

Dyed black hair whipped backwards from Alex's forehead, and moisture drained away from his eyes down his face as he continued to look upwards, causing the boy to blink several times to clear his drying vision, and wipe a dirty sleeve across his face to remove the stained tracks that the water had left.

The behemoth hovered there for a full minute, hot VTOL rockets blasting the area with wisping air currents, before it rose back higher into the sky, turned on it's proverbial heel, and backed away.

Alex remained focused on the retreating form, and as it spun, he saw a single number, printed in sparkling clarity, white and many feet high, on the hull.

Two.

_Thunderbird Two, approaching the danger zone, just before;_

Brains, the shy genius behind the crafts now scattering down on Route 12, ventured back into the cockpit of Thunderbird Two, hoping that the black storm clouds above his young companion had receded enough for his arrival to be safe.

"Hey, Brains."

The tension evaporated like boiling water from inside Brains immediately, the calm, even greeting signifying the worst of the bad weather inside Virgil Tracy had passed right on by.

"H… hello, Virgil. We m… must be, ah, nearing the danger zone s… soon?"

The eighteen-year-old pilot glanced over his instruments briefly, and his eyes blinked shut momentarily whilst he calculated.

"Yup. Two point seven minutes now. I was thinking though…"

Virgil suddenly became quiet, biting his lower lip in thought.

"G… go on, Virgil."

"Well, it's just, Scott said to land in this field but I kinda wanted to go and take a bird's eye view on what exactly it is we're getting into."

Brains stared at the pilot for a moment, before taking off his thick, blue rimmed glasses, and cleaning them on his shirt edge, with an audible clicking of plastic on plastic. Replacing his spectacles, thinking time over and done with, he smiled,

"S… sounds like a, ah, plan to me. After a… all, I'm, ah, sure it won't hurt to t… take a brief g… glance."

With the boyish grin from five minutes earlier replaced, and a nod of his head, Virgil edged the craft round a little to face the danger zone instead, and continued, maximum throttle and great anticipation leading the way.

_Danger zone, beneath Thunderbird One's wing, same time;_

Scott Tracy, Senior Trooper Edwards, and the Fire Chief, Mark Adams, a man with a handsome but ageing face, stood in the shadows of Thunderbird One's fuselage, staring up as the huge, green sister-ship, hovered and then left, finally heading towards the grass-lands earlier designated by Scott, as the Field Commander of International Rescue.

_What the hell are you playing at, Virge, _Scott thought, anger smeared across his emotions.

"Well, one thing I can say, is you guys don't like to do things by halves, do you?" Edwards grinned, his eyes mesmerised just by the vast size of Thunderbird Two, whilst Scott still watched his brother land the giant Thunderbird.

Scott shrugged, his mind elsewhere right then, and the trooper frowned, wondering what exactly has on this young man's mind, whom just a moment ago had been so happy and almost open with his thoughts.

The three men stood in silence though, after Scott had cut the conversation short, until two others approached them. One tall, thin, with large glasses and a worried expression; the other shorter, more bold, and wearing a confident smile.

Scott said nothing as they approached, and just stood looking at Virgil, calculating the best way to deal with everything that had just happened and that would happen.

And in the end military training won out, no point endangering the mission by chewing Virgil out there and then about following protocol, that could wait until they were safely back home and this whole damn mess was behind them. After all, what were debriefings for, right…?

Instead Scott took the professional approach,

"Chief Adams, Senior Trooper Edwards, could you possibly excuse us for a moment?"

"Sure." Edwards replied, whilst the Fire Chief nodded agreement, and then both turned away and moved back towards the huddled crowds of blue and black clothed emergency personnel a little way off, further from the collapsing bridge and nearer safety.

Once the two men were out of earshot, Virgil turned to Scott, all excitement and eagerness,

"So, we got a plan then?"

Scott twisted his hands around, and couldn't quite make eye contact with his brother. "Kinda."

"Scott?"

"I'm working on it, Virge."

It had been a while since Virgil had heard his eldest brother sound so unsure, it had been especially rare since Scott had joined the Air Force.

"So, er, what's this 'kinda' plan of yours, then?"

"Well, I've been talking to the Fire Chief and the State Police, and they've only really got two problems." Looking at his brother and friend again, having turned away, Scott saw both Virgil and Brains looking on expectantly, so he continued. "They've got enough men that they reckon they can cover the medical side, and even the simple rescue side, the crushed cars and stuff; but the bridge isn't stable enough for them to risk their men and equipment on it, and they don't think they've got enough mechanical power here to pull that bus back on the road." Scott glanced behind him to the stricken vehicle, and the others followed his line of sight and looked back at the bus they had seen and noted from the air.

"So we need to hold the bridge somehow and tow the bus?" Virgil summarised.

"Yeah, pretty much."

Brains had been silent throughout this little conversation, quietly pondering the trio's options, but now spoke up, asking the question that both he and Virgil wanted to know, but that the eighteen year old hadn't been quite brave enough to ask of his sibling.

"S… so what is the, ah, p… plan, S… Scott?"

Again, the twenty-year-old Field Commander, looked away, steeling himself for what was coming next. Admitting he needed help.

"Thunderbird Two can hold the bus's weight easily, so you and Virgil go up in her, and use the extendable clamps on Two's underside to drag the tin can back onto the bridge."

"And what about the bridge supports, Scott?"

Now there was the problem. And the reason Scott had been so glad to speak to John. However the sarcastic little whiz kid had been as helpful as a spoon would be to a mining company. His suggestion had been to hold the bridge with Two, and let the emergency services evacuate the area, and then let the bridge do what it wanted, and fall into the lake.

Better than his first idea though, which was to finish the job someone had started, collapse the bridge into the water, and give Gordon a call to come with his Navy friends. Bloody hilarious, John was. And as far as Scott was concerned he'd get everything he deserved when he next had leave.

"Well, that was pretty much the finer details I needed to sort out with you guys. I spoke with John earlier," Virgil raised his eyebrows at this, but Scott ignored him, "he reckoned Two could hold the bridge until it was cleared, but I don't know what with the bus as well?"

The dark-haired leader turned to Brains then.

The shy genius adjusted his glasses on his nose, and distractedly fiddled with his shirt edge.

"T… theoretically Two could, ah, h… hold the required section of the bridge's weight, I believe, but not, ah, a… at the same time as the b… bus. Moving the v… vehicle will involve, ah, her manoeuvring a l… little, and s… she can't, ah, do both at the same t… time."

"So, any ideas?" Virgil asked.

"Well, ah, Thunderbird One might j… just be able to hold the bus, I d… don't, ah, know for sure, I would need to, ah, do a c… couple of calculations. If not, we need to s… set up supports, under the bridge." Brains paused for a moment, thinking about the contents of the pod nestled between the ends of Thunderbird Two. "We'd need to speak to the, ah, Fire Service though, s… see if they, ah, have anything we could u… use."

A little more confident, with a plan starting to form, and help at hand, Scott set about distributing tasks between his small workforce.

"Right, Brains, I need you to start working out whether or not One can hold the vehicle. Virgil, go and check the clamps on Two, and get them ready for use. I'm going to go and have another word with Chief Adams and see whether they've got anything we can use."

Happy, and with a challenge to complete, Brains nodded, and turned away, heading back to Thunderbird Two, where he could think undisrupted, because time was everything right then; while Virgil gave a slightly more vocal reply.

And then the trio of first-time rescuers parted company, each with their own task to work on, and private mission to achieve, with occasion and situation as their biggest enemies.


	9. Square Two

**9. Square Two **

A brief fifteen minutes, and a short, sharp watch comm. initiated vibration later, and the three young rescuers gathered again in the deep shadows, this time beneath the whaling frame of Thunderbird Two, far enough away from prying ears and eyes around them.

"Right, what have we got guys?" Scott, Field Commander and natural leader, asked of his two crewmembers.

Brains coughed slightly, suggesting in his own typically chary, hesitant approach, that he was ready to speak first, before staring at the long-ish, white-marked grass of the playing field beneath them, and playing with the edge of his now crumpled shirt, again.

"A… at a stretch, Thunderbird O… One _could_, ah, hold the weight of the bus. It would t… though, ah, require all of the boosters, and p… probably t… too much fuel. It would b… be right on the, ah, e… edge of the s… safety margin to get you, ah, h… home again, Scott, depending on, ah, h… how easily the bus moved."

Scott ran a hand through the front of his hair, leaving it sticking up in short, matted clumps, as he thought through the consequences that this meant.

"Couldn't you siphon off some of Two's fuel though?" Virgil questioned, glancing quizzically at the engineer present.

"Y… you, ah, could, but the m… mixtures are s… slightly different, ah, compounds, and it w… wouldn't do One's engines any, ah, good."

"Oh, yeah. Had kinda forgotten that." Virgil said, slightly abash.

"So, that's a no then. We want the lowest-risk option, for equipment _and _crew." Brains looked up, nodded and then went back to studying the individual, olive drab blades of grass at his feet. "Well, I've spoken to the Fire Chief and his men, and they've got nothing tall enough to reach the bottom of the lake, and support the bridge. I was looking at the maps they've got of the area, and the section we're looking at is a hundred-and-ten feet deep."

"No way!" Virgil blurted out, before breaking off into sudden muteness. "Sorry, just it didn't look that deep from the air." His cheeks coloured crimson just a little as he tried to cover his outburst, and second embarrassing moment in a matter of a few seconds, and then he too, for just a moment, went about studying the grass below. It was a little scorched around the edges he noticed, but he guessed that was what hot exhaust did to biological things close up.

"Well, it is. According to the maps, we're lucky. Most of the lake is over a hundred-and-fifty deep, and at worst, some points are over two hundred. Turns out at the turn of the century this was a dam, that's since become redundant." Scott blinked hard, and then continued. "Thing is, we've got nothing that tall either."

"W… well, not exactly."

Deep, honey-burnt eyes and piercing blue twisted rapidly to look at Brains, who had looked up from the insect life below.

"H… having looked at the, ah, televised images, and knowing that the lake might pose a problem, before we left, I, ah, h… had the floating platforms l… loaded into the, ah, pod, and s… seeing as the water, ah, level is h… high at the moment, the s… supports might just reach from them to the, ah, b… bridge."

"Alright. I'll get back on to Chief Adams, and see what we can sort out. Virgil, are the clamps ready to go?"

"Uh-huh." Virgil nodded. "They're all set."

"Good. I reckon the easiest thing would be to drop the platforms from the air, so I need you to move them into position for that. I'm going to go and speak to Adams, and then it's about time we got this show on the road, don't you think?"

"F.A.B."

"Ready to go in ten, guys."

_A safe distance from Route 12, among the Emergency Services;_

Gritty dust, fragments of car bodywork, and, at times, drying blood covered the drabble of people leaving the bridge by themselves. Some clasped children's hands tightly in their own, carefully picking the easiest way out for both themselves and their young charges, others dragged cherished and treasured possessions behind them.

All headed towards the rotating, flashing lights of the emergency services though, where they knew help was to be at hand; few even spared a glance towards the strange aircrafts a little way off – the outlandish, peculiar arrivals long forgotten, their own plights much more important.

Carefully edging between the injured though was a young man, looking for one person in particular, and trying not to think about the time he was wasting searching between the traversing people, and hating every moment of it.

At last Scott Tracy found Chief Adams, the single man in charge of co-ordinating the fire service in the area, a job he was well practiced at, and entirely respected for. A lengthy conversation followed, until the hindmost details of the rescue operation to secure the shifting and temperamental bridge and all of it's dwellers were confirmed.

_Just under half an hour later, same place;_

With head-shaking force Thunderbird Two re-took to the skies, soaring upwards so that the jets would disturb the densely populated area as little as possible, before easily gliding under the steady control of Virgil, over the lake below.

In the hull, Brains was standing about ten metres to the left of a stack of floating plates that were positioned ready to be dropped one by one onto the deep waters below, a belt-harness securely around his waist and a locked caribena attached to both him and the unmoving wall of the rescue craft.

In the cockpit, the call alert buzzed, bringing Virgil's head up from his instruments.

"Thunderbird One, to Thunderbird Two."

He mashed the 'accept' button, his eldest brother's face appearing on a section of the smart glass windshield, all professional rescuer and serious official.

"Hey, Scott."

"You ready to go?"

"Uh-huh. Brains is down by the hatch controls, and ready to go when everyone's in position."

"Good." Scott _almost_ smiled at his middle sibling, blue eyes staring straight at him, beginning to understand the younger man without a word being said, before confirming his plan again. "Now remember, Virgil, you drop as low as you can without disturbing the water too much and drop the first platform."

Virgil inwardly smirked at his brother's need to go over everything continually, until the mission was pulled off successfully and safely. He did it on family-outings with Gordon and Alan too. But then again, those two _were_ dangerous when left own their own.

"I know, Scott. Then back off; let the fire-boys drag it away, and drop the next one. Repeat until either all platforms have been dispensed or platforms are golden-brown in colour and taste delicious?"

Scott actually grinned this time, before replying,

"Something like that."

"It'll be fine, Scott. Trust me."

A wicked smirk crossed the eldest's face then.

"That's what you said last time you tried to cook dinner to a golden-brown, tasty specification."

A long pause followed, as Virgil tried his hardest to ignore Scott's jibe at his latest attempt at food preparation. After all, it wasn't _his_ fault if the cooker worked differently to the one back in Kansas.

"Anyway, let me know when you're ready to drop."

"F.A.B."

Having briefly called back to Brains over the internal comm. system, making sure that he too was ready to go, Virgil set about positioning the gigantic craft squarely over the lake, away from the unstable bridge and the Fire Department's hovercraft that was sheltering below the fractured structure, before igniting the VTOL jets and calming the boosters.

Putting a call through to Scott, receiving affirmation that he was free to release the first platform, Virgil Tracy opened up the visual links to the camera's on Thunderbird Two's underside, so that he could accurately judge just how close was _too close_.

As the mammoth bulk began to slowly descend, the surface of the water started bowling out, the beginnings of a huge concave depression. The young pilot watched the vid-screens and his altimeter, religiously counting down within his head.

_100 feet._

_90 feet._

_80 feet._

"Brains, get ready to open the hatch. I'm not going to be able to go much lower without disturbing the water too much." Distractedly Virgil sent out his message over the comm. system, down to his engineering friend in hull.

"F.A.B. Virgil."

_70 feet._

_60 feet._

At this point the liquid below was rippling up, rushing across the surface in huge waves, rocking even the hovercraft some distance away, threatening to rise up, over the edge, flooding the some-what cramped deck.

Re-opening the link to Scott, the eighteen year old gave one final notification to his brother that the platform was about to go (so that he could pass on the message and let the firemen brace against possible waves), before telling Brains to open her up.

_Thunderbird Two's hold, continuing on;_

The designer of both of the Thunderbird crafts, and most of the equipment within them, couldn't help the satisfied smile that cross his lips, as the instruction to open the hatch and 'let rip' came through the loud speaker.

The middle Tracy's voice had positively boomed across the open area, causing the young genius to leap into the air in shock initially, before he had sheepishly then glanced back up at the cameras to check that he was not being watched.

Possible embarrassment quelled, Brains had turned to the control panel beside him, keying in the access code to allow him full control of the mechanism that would drop the platforms down to the water below. The buttons lit up in varying shades of orange, yellow and crimson, the dark text a stark contrast on their glowing surface.

"Ready to release Panel One."

"F.A.B."

Depressing two buttons simultaneously, a motor whirred and chugged into life off to the right hand side of the craft, behind one of many service panels, as a section of the plating on the bottom of Thunderbird Two began to retract away, leaving a gap below, where winds and updrafts surged in, swarming about the relatively empty hold.

Bracing himself against the inner wall, glad of the secure clip stopping him from being blown out the breach in the underside, Brains pressed three further buttons in sequence and then watched as the magnetic grabs let go of the large, floating platform and it fell through the outlet, crashing down with intense, monopolising strength on the water, fabricating pitching waves that erupted across the top of the lake.

Watching intently as the large form fell, Brains was only too aware of how it was guided only by hope and faith.

But his fears were unfounded, as the slab fell straight and true; from a distance he saw the hovercraft rocked below the damaged bridge, and dancing above the water, but no harm came to those inside, much to the young genius' immense relief, as he resealed the open hatch.

As the fire-service's vessel began to bounce across the waves to the scene below, tow rope at the ready, Virgil Tracy pulled back on the controls of the monstrous Thunderbird Two, dragging her back upwards and away from the water; allowing the bowl-ing effect the VTOLs had been having on the liquid to reduce and calm itself enough for the extraction of the floating platform.

Whilst the platform on the water was tied and secured to the hovercraft below; Brains, in the hold, began readying the next drop, attaching magnetic clamps, and positioning the piece of equipment just so, above where the hatch would be re-opened. And as the boat below pulled away, dragging the first piece of the rescue towards the stricken bridge, Virgil Tracy started to lower his craft once again.

This was going to take some time, the eighteen year old thought, but… _man_ was it going to be fun!


	10. Operating Solo

**10. Operating Solo**

Chief Adams had never been a man to sit back and wait for life to come to him. Rather he preferred to go out and grab the frail and sometimes flailing thing with both hands, grasping it tightly and manipulating it until it worked for him. His father, an old man fond of past sayings and proverbs, had told him once that,

'_In the kingdom o' the blind, the one eye' man's king.'_

To begin with he'd never understood what his father had meant, not until he joined the Fire Department at least. And never before, he thought, had it rung truer than now.

Who ever knew the most, could see the furthest ahead, with the best plan, was the one that everyone looked to, and followed, so to say, blindly.

And so, he set about changing and working the situation currently happening, until he knew, to the best of his ability (which was considerable) what was going to occur next and exactly how.

Consequently as the final platform burst onto the frothing water, Adams had the last gossamer-steel support transported to the edge of the bank, ready to be hauled onto the hovercraft and sailed into place, below the damaged bridge.

Out on the lake waves bit at the sides of the florescent, orange hovercraft, trying to force it this way and that, but Holly Miller, a thirty-something year old, with short-cropped ginger hair, a hard face, and much experience, held the little, floating boat as steady as possible, whilst the two other crew members worked on untying the final floating platform provided by International Rescue and dropping the weights attached to it.

The water disturbance decreased as the giant bulk of Thunderbird Two pulled up and away from the lake surface, allowing Miller to loosen her grip on the steering controls and glance back to see how her crewmembers were doing.

_Route 12, out on the bridge;_

Watching in awed silence and absolute wonder, Alex Haddon had barely removed his eyes from the colossal underside of the giant that had proclaimed itself as 'Two', since it had arrived, following it with his gaze away from the bridge and to the field it had landed on, only glancing away to check on his still unconscious friend.

The fifteen-year-old would-be rioter had sat on the floor, smoothing Tilly Green's dyed hair back off of her face; trying to dredge up the last remnants of the two first-aid classes his mother had dragged him, protesting the whole way, along to. She'd once tried to instil upon the unruly boy how important learning basic first aid was. Now he wished he'd even tried to listen. All that he could dig up from the cobweb lined safe-hold of his mind was of little use.

Was she breathing? Did she have a pulse?

Fortuitously his friend did, Alex not being able to recall what to do if either of those questions had the devastating and perhaps fatal, answer; _no._

Fearful and scared, Alex huddled up closer to Tilly; more than being afraid of her dying, he was terrified of being alone. The inanimate girl might not have been great conversation, but at least he wasn't alone. There'd still been few sounds from the surrounding area, meaning one of three things in Alex's opinion:

_1. There had been no one around them when the explosion had gone off,_

_2. All the people around them were unconscious and hurt too,_

Or the most shuddering idea of all, that made him flinch and falter in his thoughts,

_3. Everyone else was already dead and he was alone, out on that bridge._

There _had _been a small amount of hope though for the frightened boy, when 'Two' had retaken to the skies and begun dropping something on to the deep, unnerving lake that lay below, ready to claim it's victims if the bridge were to rupture further.

And since then there had been a flurry of activity; a hovercraft zipped back and to across the water, dragging first some form of platform below the failing bridge, and then some type of metal beam to the same place.

Maybe the Fire Department had found a way to stabilise the shifting bridge, maybe those strange crafts were sent by the United Nations Government to help a member state in it's time of need… Just maybe a rescue was coming for the teenagers marooned on the Lake Oahe Overpass.

_Thunderbird One, as last platform is dropped on the lake;_

All was going well in the eyes of Scott Tracy; the platforms were dropped and being hauled into position as he sat, Chief Adams had the supports ready to be shipped out and put in place, and then the real rescue could begin. Getting all those stuck on the bridge, off and to safety.

Twisting the dial before him round to the tacked on note reading _'TB2'_, Scott depressed a shaded-green button beside it on the control panel.

"Thunderbird One, to Thunderbird Two."

Virgil acknowledged, with a swift nod and a word, a small smile playing across his face, that Scott couldn't help but notice.

"Good to see you're still not enjoying yourself too much there, Virge."

Virgil shrugged through the smart glass,

"Ah, comme-ci, comme ça, et al."

Snorting slightly, both at his brother's obvious excitement and his inept use and handling of the French language, and accent that was so obviously Northern American, Scott continued,

"Got the next bit of the plan ready here for you."

"Go ahead, Scott."

"I want you to land where you were before, disembark and then Brains can take Two back up." Scott noted the disgruntled look pass across the eighteen year old's face, but continued. "Then we get onto the bridge, and over to the bus. Brains drops the clamps, we secure them, and Two takes the weight of the vehicle."

"Right…" Virgil replied, completely unconvinced and fairly unwilling.

"Once the bus is stable, we help the Fire Department evacuate it, and then Brains can try and drag it back on to the bridge, ready for the clear up later."

"Maybe Brains would be…"

Scott cut across, before Virgil could continue.

"No. I've spoken to Dad about this as well, whilst you've been up in the air. Brains doesn't have the best 'people-skills' and he knows the craft just as well as you, better really, considering. So my decision stands, you come down, and Brains stays up."

Begrudgingly Virgil accepted this with a swift 'F.A.B.' and signed off, disconnecting the call, knowing better than to argue with Scott, as the screen blacked out.

_Seriously,_ he thought, _when did it become a __**good**__ idea to work with your brothers?_

Sighing, the twenty-year-old field commander leant back against his chair, and ran a hand through his hair.

_Under the cover of Thunderbird One, a little while later;_

Virgil Tracy, unhappy with how the course of the rescue was playing out, having been removed from the ship he'd come to call his own, gradually shuffled over to where his eldest brother was waiting, impatiently pacing, beneath the wing of the silver arrow, Thunderbird One.

Once within throwing distance, Scott picked up a green rucksack from the tousled ground and tossed it in his sibling's direction, from where it was fielded neatly, and shouldered.

"Ready to go?"

"Uh-huh. You?"

Scott nodded sharply, and smiled at his younger counter-part, as the pair began walking out from the shadow of One's wing, towards the black and silver blur that was the gathered emergency personnel. "Earlier; I wasn't insinuating that Brains is a better pilot, Virge, it's just that…"

"Don't worry about it." Virgil paused, and stopped walking for a moment, then grinned widely. "I'll just beat the crap out of you when we get home."

"Whatever, Virge." Scott laughed. "The day you beat me, is the day…" He trailed off though, the duo having reached the outer edges of the crowd of people waiting to get onto the bridge and help.

As the two brothers stood united, waiting for some kind of signal that the supports were set up for the crippled bridge, Chief Adams marched up to them.

"Gentleman."

Both boys turned towards the sturdy man, trusting and nearly unafraid.

"The last joins are being made as we speak. I've got a team of five that are ready to go with you to the bus." He indicated a group of burly looking men standing some way off. "Some of the best Mobridge has to offer."

"Right."

"The rest of the crews are going to focus first on the outer region of casualties, and work their way inwards, systematically covering all areas."

"Good. Thank you for your help, Chief."

"Anytime. I just want everyone off the bridge, in as few pieces as possible."

Chief Mark Adams shook hands with the International Rescue Field Commander and then backed off, into the massed array of those waiting to help, to give more orders, support and as much guidance as he could.

_Russell Springs, Kansas, Alan Tracy's bedroom, same time;_

Still flopped on top of his bedcovers, the television broadcasting constant updates of the situation unfolding in Mobridge, Alan Tracy was still bummed-out and gloomy at best.

Life for the teen had not got any worse, but nor had it improved.

Ten minutes after seeing the news that his brothers had just started out on their first rescue mission (the coolest thing since, well, forever – if he'd been there too that is) Alan received a vid-call from his best friend, a karting team-mate, and school companion.

That had started out badly to begin with, the only person Alan was really wanting to talk to was Gordon, and for some strange reason, he'd almost believed his brother had called him, taking a break from sailing the seven seas. So, when Cameron Turpin-Banks' enthusiastic, almost-shouted greeting met him, all Alan Tracy wanted to do was throw the damn cell phone across his room, against the wall.

"Have you _seen_ the news, Al? It's amazing!"

Cameron was an active boy, with a freckled, mischievous face and a blunt way, two things that had made the two teenagers such good friends. Now though, he was desperate to show that he knew more about the exciting events unfolding a couple of states north, and Alan just wasn't interested.

And so, on the conversation had gone on, until Alan had pulled a face, and pretended his infamous, and formidable Grandmother was calling him, disconnecting the call.

The fifteen year old had guessed at the floating platforms being that which had been dropped from Thunderbird Two (having spent all of last summer quizzing Brains at what he'd do in all sorts of situations) and had accidentally announced this to his karting teammate. Thinking his friend must have a better television station, which was giving out more detailed information, the other boy had begun quizzing about everything else they were saying, wanting to know it all.

Alan, disgruntled and annoyed at his father right about then, just didn't want to think about it.


	11. Half and Half

**Sorry for so many delays. Got this up today because my school/college closed soon after opening because it was a foot and a half under water in most places within an hour; funny for some, not for others with important work ruined. All pleasant surprises seem to have a downside.**

**11. Half and Half**

_Route 12, South Dakota, United States of America;_

Bristling, crackles of static interspersed the broken message, coming up from the hovercraft; the antenna having been snapped off by a vicious, sweeping, rogue wsave earlier on.

"Chief A… the last… is up… proceed… good luck."

But it was enough for the man in charge to know the failing bridge was as stable as it was ever likely going to be again (until it was eventually knocked down and re-built that was), and giving a swift arm-waving signal, the amassed crowd of rescuers began to edge forward onto the lake overpass.

Scott and Virgil Tracy, along with five other men, all shouldering heavily-laden rucksacks, headed onto the bridge with the others, but continued on further than the rest; past the initial wreckages of twisted, warped, metal cars and crushed, deformed ticket booths, moving with purpose and intention, needing to reach the precariously dangling bus a little way along.

Hovering overhead, reminiscent of a dragon, with snorting bursts of flame, was Thunderbird Two, waiting to serve and haul the falling vehicle back towards safety.

First though, those on board needed to be moved to safety.

_Jeff Tracy's Office, Tracy Island, a little before;_

Obviously he'd never imagined that a full-scale rescue would be easy, but some of the complications facing the self-made billionaire, sat behind his one-off, handmade, beech wood desk, had never even dared to push their scary way into his most nightmarish dreams.

The problems had started before either of his boys had yet to land, and were still not leaving the would-be heroes alone. Sighing deeply, Jeff Tracy ran a hand through his already slightly mussed hair. Latest news was that the supports were nearly in place, and evacuation routes for the injured were being confirmed.

To his right, a sliding, glass-squared, panel was pushed back, nearly, almost silently, revealing the slender, youthful form of TinTin Kyrano, his manservant's only daughter, and absolute pride and joy; just like his sons were to himself really. Or at least for most of the time, although there were moments, he guessed, it must be hidden pretty deep down.

Sixteen years old, the young girl was not only a cause of constant and persistent worry for her father, but Jeff too, was frequently concerned about the girl, and certain one of his sons' apparent affection for the Eurasian beauty. A little over a year older than blonde haired, blue eyed Alan, when the boy was on the island, she was his one and only distraction.

Now however, with Alan miles away (and safe) in Kansas, TinTin brought with her only a tray of coffee.

"My father suggested that you might wish for more refreshments, Mr. Tracy."

"Thank you, TinTin." He smiled at the girl, whilst she placed the tray on the desk, and then poured out a mug of steaming, brown liquid, before she half-curtseyed and excused herself from his presence, leaving the half-full pot behind.

Sipping from the large, white, ceramic mug, Jeff gave a moment to wander across his busy thoughts, straying to a particular son; somewhere unknown, out in the world. Isabelle, if she had her own way, would have him reconcile his differences and just say sorry, but as far as he was concerned the day his ex-wife walked out on his sons was the day he should have stopped loving her – just he hadn't quite managed to yet.

That was all.

_Route 12, beside a stricken bus;_

It really had been a matter of complete chance that had kept the public bus on the bridge, and not allowed it to plummet some feet below into the viciously waiting waters. Metal cables, designed to hold up the supports of the suspension bridge, had snapped and twisted as the explosion had shaken the overpass, a few just catching the flaying vehicle before it had fallen.

Huge, gashing scars marred the green and yellow paint work, and one of the cables had taken out some of the safety glass windows, leaving gapping holes in the side, where transparent glass (now shattered in safe cubes on the floor) had been.

Having successfully field-tested Brains' new watch comm. devices whilst talking to Virgil, Scott raised his right wrist towards his face, selecting the channel that would put him through to Thunderbird Two, and the colossal ship's pilot.

"Brains, we're in position and ready for you to start lowering the clamps."

"F.A.B."

Overhead, the gigantic behemoth twisted a little to find a better position, resisting with ease all the buffeting winds and air currents; and all the while Virgil held his breath, his lower lip clenched between his teeth. As she came to settle in the sky, a different hatch on her underside, slid open, revealing nothing to those below except a cavernous, black hold, unless you knew what you were looking for.

Not intentional design, but useful all the same.

A moment passed, and then four round discs, a foot and a half at most in diameter, made of a granite coloured metal with red stencilled letters, and attached to thick, weaved and twisted, steel cables, began to make their descent down, snaking about in the winds from the hot engines of the aircraft.

They seemed to take an age to lower themselves, but as they got to just above reaching height, Scott called out to both his brother present, and the men sent to help the pair of rescuers.

"We need to grab them, before they swing off the edge too far. There's only so much manoeuvring Two can do with them."

And so the seven gathered set about finding the highest, stable points on the splintering bridge, in the area; two men climbing on top of empty shells of abandoned cars, and another edging along a fallen side-support beam.

Virgil, seeing one of the discs had begun to blow away from it's brothers, headed further away from the group, nearer to where he thought it would end, put his hands up on the bonnet of another car, meaning to climb up, but stopped when one of the Mobridge Fire Fighters put a large hand on his shoulder.

"Let me, huh? Now's no place t' be getting offended, but I'm easily taller, an' got a better reach."

Nodding, Virgil backed down, instead giving the taller man a hand up.

"Kurt, by the way."

"Virge."

"Nice t' meet you."

Levering himself first on to the bonnet and then the roof, Kurt mirrored the actions of his three companions and co-workers, reaching upwards, stretching to grasp the lowering, metal disc. As it came into playing distance, the fire-fighter's fingers scrabbled against the smooth metal, gently pushing it's oscillating swing closer towards him, until he could place both palms around the edges and hold it tightly.

Seeing all four discs being clasped securely, Scott keyed his watch comm. back through to Thunderbird Two.

"That's enough, Brains. We've got them. Give another three feet of slack, and then stay in place."

"R… right, Scott. F.A.B."

The cables holding the metal plates continued to lengthen for a moment, and then stopped, allowing the men holding them to climb back down from their perches on the soon-to-be scrapped metal, and head back towards the bus.

Passing the item he was holding back over to Virgil, Kurt said,

"Guess you might wan' this. I've no idea how it works, t' be honest."

Smiling Virgil took the piece of equipment and the two men jogged back towards the rest of the group, towing the device behind them, ignoring the rest of the collected wreckages around them, and trying not to think about what might lay within.

_Kennedy Space Centre, around about the same time;_

When he'd finished conversing with his only elder brother, Scott; the nineteen year old astronaut-in-training returned to the living area of the halls of residence, where his colleagues and team members were still sat in front of the flickering, static-y television set.

"Where'd you go, John? You're missing out; the strangest thing since the truth behind the Roswell Incident was uncovered, is happening a few states north."

Tobias Felix Shaffer was of German-American parentage, and three years John's senior. Since first grade he'd been known as Felix though, because there'd been a 'Toby' in his class too, and his poor teacher had found life far too confusing.

He'd passed the aptitude tests to join N.A.S.A. about three weeks before John, and was training at the Space Centre to be a pilot, having been selected along with a group of five others to fly the next-but-one moon mission, scheduled late September 2061, to take up more supplies for the International Space Shuttle and further equipment to be dropped off on the moon for the on-going construction works on _Le Centre Spatial International (CSI)_, on the surface.

His crewmates included John Tracy, who was training alongside him as Flight Engineer, an experienced Mission Commander, and three other Mission Specialists.

"Yeah, I've seen it, Felix. Was calling my brother actually, seeing if he had…"

The blond smiled, inwardly laughing, being the only one in the room aware of what was so damn funny.

Tossing a crumpled towel that had been left around for some reason or another, off of a chair, John Tracy sat down; to watch the show and be ready to give help if his brothers came to need it.

_Back on Route 12, beside the bus;_

Under the International Rescue Field Commander's orders, the three firemen and one team member had spaced themselves as evenly as they could around the bus, two to a side, and a good few metres between each man. In their hands were the metallic discs, a foot and a half in diameter that they held up against the surface of the stricken vehicle, waiting for the next command.

Walking up next to his brother, Scott Tracy initiated contact with the team's engineer, Brains, and holding his watch towards his face, whilst watching Virgil intently, he spoke.

"Brains, I want you to initiate the contact points on Clamp Number Two."

"O… okay, Scott."

Up on the enormous craft, the lanky, but exceptionally bright young man, keyed a few buttons, and watched as the light above the label 'Clamp Two' came on.

Down on the ground (well, the overpass at any rate), Virgil Tracy held the plate as still as he could, whilst it began buzzing in his hands, vibrating ever so slightly back and forth.

"You alright, Virge?"

"Uh-huh."

Slowly, as the eighteen year old felt the weight lift from his palms, he edged his hands away from the device, where it stuck fast to the side of the vehicle, ready to support it's weight. The process then repeated individually a further three times, as each of the other clamps was fastened to the side of the bus.

There'd been one worrying moment, when the second disc had slipped off and crashed to the ground; but it had turned out that the positioning of it had been over one of the gashing scars and a couple of the contact points hadn't connected properly, easily solved, and simple compared to some of the problems the rescuers had faced just a couple of hours earlier (a rocking bridge and gun-point welcome among the least favourable of them).

And so, as the fourth and final clamp held, Virgil radioed up to Brains to 'take up the slack', and obligingly the motors way above them whirred back into life, and the cables slowly became taught, before the order was issued to turn the winches off.

With the public transport vehicle as secure as it could be, the seven men stood back to admire their work for just a moment, before Scott, as kind of half self-appointed leader, half rank-secured commander began to lead the way towards the back of the bus, where the large, swinging hatch could be opened to give easier access.

The fact that no one had even tried to get their attention worried Scott; meant that all those on board were unconscious… or possibly worse.


	12. Abetment

**Greatly disliking this chapter, but without motivation today to edit. Will do soon. Sorry takes so long to update. Jakk's back in a week and a day...**

**12. Abetment**

Heaving at the stubbornly holding rear door, Scott considered for just a moment how strange it must have looked. There was he, tall, with fairly broad shoulders, wrenching the handle on a hatch (which was stuck fast incidentally, and determined not to move) whilst five other well-muscled men watched.

The sixth member of the seven-strong group had left a couple of minutes ago, walking up to the very edge of the bridge, trying to peer into the bus, to see how the passengers were; but with the front half frittering over the edge, the rear of the vehicle had raised up. It was only by about a foot, but unwilling to put extra weight on the bus just yet, the man couldn't quite see in through the now glassless window, and gave up, returning to the rest of the party.

Scott stopped shoving the rear door, and stepped back away from it, taking another moment to examine it, before moving in closer again. Running a hand around the joins between the hatch and the main structure for a fourth time, he turned back to those gathered.

"We need to find something to prise it open, from what I can see." He laid his hand back against the cold, slightly warped metal. "See here? The metal's bent, making a slight lip." A couple of the men nodded, whether or not they could see immaterial. "That's what holding it closed; along with a stubborn, jack-ass lock."

One of the 'borrowed' firemen, made a hand-gesture as though pointing a solution that had materialised in flowery pink and purple letters in the air, and rushed back over to where the group of rescuers had dropped their rucksacks.

Pulling a blue-grey coloured bag from the pile, he unzipped the main compartment, tossed out a couple of folded blankets, and then picked up the pack with what remained in it, and took it back across the short distance to the bus. Setting it down on the ash-coloured tarmac, he reached down the side and pulled out a long metal pole, with a flattened end, shaped like an over-sized screwdriver head.

"This do?" He asked with a grin, holding it out like a first-place trophy, in Scott's direction.

"I'm thinking it might just."

The twenty-year-old Field Commander took the tool, and levelling it against the edge of the door, just inside the bent frame, he lent with as much force as he could summon against the metal shaft.

The frame groaned and creaked as it was prised apart, the lip rose back off of where it had settled happily against the dual-coloured door, freeing up the mechanism behind it. Scott tossed the prise-bar back to the floor, and squaring himself opposite the access point, he pushed down on the handle, and pulled back.

Slowly, as though it had all the time in the world to waste, the hatch slid out of the frame, until the width of the door was clear and squeaking heavily at the hinges, it was flung wide open to reveal, finally, what lay just inside the metal shell.

For the first time, the rescuers had a clear view of the inside of the stranded and slowly falling vehicle. A couple of the bench seats had clawed their way lose of the bolts and plates holding them to the scratched and marked floor, and were stacked haphazardly against other seats where they had fallen and come to rest. Looking around through the rear hatch, it was easy to see and apparent that the vehicle had not been particularly full when crossing the bridge; a handful of people were dotted around the seats, slumped forwards or sideways in most cases.

An elderly couple were leaning against one another, on the far left side, and a few companionless people were seated on the right hand side of the bus. Upfront the driver had fallen completely over to one side, leaning over the ticket-dispensing unit, having fallen through where the perspex glass window normally was (now in three inch long, jagged shards on the floor), through which he would usually speak to passengers as they boarded and sell tickets.

Beside his younger brother, Scott peered through the opening,

"Not as bad as we thought." He half murmured to himself and half to the young man standing beside him. However, out loud, to the rest of those gathered around the bus, he said something quite different. "Okay, guys, we've got six injured inside. Evac is our priority here. However, there are less injured than we thought, so where possible I want these people stabilised before movement. Understood?"

Nods all around the gathered confirmed the plan of action.

"Also, there's very little point in all of us climbing around inside, considering the position the vehicle is in anyway. Right? So I'm proposing two go right inside to help the injured, one can stay just beyond the door to help lift people out, and four stay outside to receive the victims this side of operations."

A couple more nods encouraged Scott to continue explaining. Honesty too, seemed the best option just about then for the first-time rescuer.

"I'll stay outside, my medical knowledge is fairly crude, simple EMT; you guys are undoubtedly better trained. However, I want Virgil inside." Something inside him squirmed a little at this. Maybe it was the proximity of the impending 'salvage' procedure… maybe it was that he was sending his little brother somewhere so unbalanced, but whatever the twisting feeling was, he pushed it down a little further. "I don't know all of your strengths nevertheless, so I need you to identify amongst yourselves who's going in, and who's staying out."

Glancing sideways, brown orbs caught blue, and a slight, almost nod, unnoticed by anyone else, supported, strengthened Scott's decision, and slightly settled the turmoil inside.

The five Mobridge Firemen turned back to the International Rescue pair, and the man, who had earlier identified himself to Virgil, as Kurt, stepped forward.

"Leo's going in with Virgil, and I'm going to be the go-between. The other three will stay outside to help you."

"Uh-huh. Let's get going then."

With a swift upwards-fleeting look towards Thunderbird Two, hovering patiently above the small scene below, Virgil hoisted his pack onto his shoulder again, and placing his hands on either side of the doorway, stepped up into the bus' interior; shortly followed by his newest companion, Leo.

Once inside, Virgil set about prioritising. The two lone travellers on the nearest right hand side, looked as good as any place to start, and as though they were in need of as little help as possible.

"You take that one." Virgil pointed to a middle aged, suited man sitting four rows from the back, and then started to climb carefully over the torn metal that used to be a bench seat towards a teenage looking boy a row in front.

_Outside the bus, Route 12;_

Scott paced slowly and deliberately in a two-metre circle at the back of the bus, trying to busy his mind with trivial data and forth coming plans, all the while attempting to content and pacify himself that if there was a problem Virgil would call, and he couldn't stand and watch always.

The three remaining fire-fighters outside the vehicle stood together a little away from Scott, waiting for the first person to be lowered out, when they could really start to help. Looking beyond the grouped, broad shoulders of his teammates, one man excused himself and walked slowly out to the pacing man.

Holding a weathered hand out, he approached, noting for the first time properly the features of a man, whom couldn't be much older than his own youngest brother, still at home _and _high school.

"Hey. I'm Frazier." Scott turned suddenly, looked at the proffered hand for a moment and then took it. "It's Scott, right? The slightly taller of the pair over there is Nathan, and the other's Dillon."

"Right. Nathan. Dillon. And…" Forgetting the name of the man before him, the twenty year old gave an embarrassed smile.

"Frazier."

"Frazier. I'll try and remember." There was a pause for a moment, and then, "Must be kind of strange for you guys to have us dropping in on your parade, so to speak."

"A little, but it's welcome. Trust me. We'd still be scratching our heads way over there, _off_ the bridge."

The two who remained still a distance away from the others, headed over to the strange pairing beside the bus. Conversation stopped and started, much as a half-blocked drainage pipe would; general conversation was awkward in the situation, personal conversation just as hard with secrecy hiding behind every turn.

It was a welcome distraction when Kurt shouted out from the door, that the first was nearly ready to be lowered out, with apparently only minor injuries, and one hell of a knock to the head. Just for something to do, the group re-checked the equipment they had with them.

A good basic first-aid supply, two fold out strap-down stretchers, and a few rigid splints. Not much, considering the level of rescue they wanted to perform; but paramedics should be on their way to pick up any stragglers and fill the inadequacies. This team's job had been to secure the bus and removes it's passengers. Not play doctors.

_Back inside the bus, same time as before;_

Kneeling down on the torn and battered seat next to the teenage boy, Virgil took in his appearance. Other than being obviously unconscious, the boy wasn't the much different to the eighteen-year old, himself, maybe a year or two older, at most.

He pushed two fingers up against the boys neck, trembling a little as the enormity of what he and his brothers had really taken on finally began to hit him.

_Had they been in time? Was this what it was going to feel like every time – never knowing if they were making a difference or just causing more trouble? Was it all worth it, in the end?_

As the pulsing beat felt it's way back to him, through the boy's skin and his own fingers, just a few answers whirled their way towards him, soaring through the devastation surrounding the area.

_Until it happened, no one ever knew if they were going to be in time, whether they were ever going to make a difference._

And right then, to the brown haired, brown-eyed boy, perched on the edge of a seat beside another in need of his help, it didn't matter. Helping did however.

Checking the adolescent beside him over for other wounds and injuries, he lightly ran his hands over the boy's limbs, trying his best to feel for breaks and swelling. Just beyond his right shoulder, but not far onto his chest felt strange to the touch, and long months of learning and study brought a battered text book page to mind, showing a fractured collar bone and the way the skin had rippled over it.

Thrusting an arm into his open rucksack, Virgil pulled out a triangular shaped bandage and with a little effort and a couple of botched and useless attempts as he tried to remember how, he fastened the man's arm across his chest, intending to protect the bone as much as possible when he was lifted out.

Finishing his makeshift and rudimentary examinations, he found nothing else amiss except the beginnings of a lump on the boy's head, the diameter about that of a golf ball. There wasn't much else he could do in the bus however, and so looked over to where Leo seemed to be coming to the same conclusion about the suited man he was seeing to.

"I think I've done all I can here."

Looking up, Leo glanced over to his companion.

"Yeah, the same here. Suspected wrist fracture and a couple of broken ribs for this one."

"Collar-bone." Virgil jerked his thumb towards the casualty beside himself. "I'll come and help you get yours out and to Kurt, and then there'll be a bit more room to manoeuvre the rest."

"Sounds good to me."

And so, leaving his pack where it had been balanced on the seat, Virgil climbed back over the stranded seating pieces to help lift the first passenger free, with a small weight lifting from his chest.

_Yes, it was worth it. Always._


	13. Gut Feeling

** Jakk is home again, and so hopefully chapters will return to previous standards. Still not liking yet another part of this story, but as I said, should soon be better.  
**

**13. Gut-feeling**

As the first paramedics had begun clambering over the shells of scattered cars to reach the small group deep in the heart of the danger zone, the first of the injured was also pulled from the bus, via the tall fire-fighter called Kurt, to be laid on the ground.

Leonard Joseph Clark (introduced only as Leo to the two visiting members of International Rescue), the dusty-blond haired fireman inside the bus alongside Virgil Tracy, had yelled out to his team mates about the casualty's suspected wrist and rib breaks, and then dived back inside the vehicle to help with the next to be evacuated, who apparently was also ready to be moved out.

The two firemen who had been introduced last had lunged in, to take the first man, who was being lowered out head first, eager to finally be of some help, and to have an excuse to break away from the fairly disjointed conversation and the definite awkwardness that hung in the air, like thick, early morning, November fog.

And so, Scott and Frazier stood, the latter with his hands deep in his thickly insulated, trouser pockets, waiting. Expeditiously, Kurt called out from the dented and marked access point.

"Here you go. The nex' ones ready."

The two-man 'team', for that was what the pair of strangers had fast become, thrown together through circumstance and a willingness to help, crossed the short distance to the rear of the yellow and green striped bus at once.

This time Virgil was at the lead, supporting the neck and shoulders, as best as he could, whilst Leo held the man, no, boy's legs. Scott started back for just a moment, startled as Kurt began to take some of the casualty's weight, who couldn't have been more than a couple of months different in age to Scott, himself.

Steeling himself though, reminding both his heart and mind that this kind of thing was likely to happen. That there would be people his, and his brothers' ages, that would need helping, he stepped back forwards to take the boy's shoulders from Kurt.

"He's got a suspected collar-bone fracture and one nasty bump to the head."

"Right, okay, Virge." And as the boy was passed along a little more, so that Scott had his lower body, and Frazier the rest, "You go back and get the others."

"F.A.B."

And the younger of the two siblings turned tail and headed back into the bus.

_Same place, a little while later;_

The evacuation procedure continued fairly smoothly, the paramedics began arriving and were just taking the first casualty, the smart-suited businessman, back over the rubble towards the triage centre on a stretcher, when the next person was carried out from the bus.

A little more worse for wear than the first duo had been, but still, by all accounts well, they were laid on the ground by the fire fighters, and then vanished beneath a cluster and assortment of medical personnel who had arrived on scene, and were yet to leave.

Both of the victims of the disaster, outside of the vehicle, had since been removed, before either of the two inside the bus reappeared with the fourth casualty. Scott had looked up instantly at the louder clanging noises, signalling movement near the entrance, and knew from the slither of a view of his brother's face that all was not well. The eighteen year old looked pained and maybe somewhat… afraid?

All four of the men standing on the bridge, made to move forwards, towards the wreckage, to help with the next to be evacuated, but half way there, Scott stopped as time seemed to lag just a little, and hung back, allowing the others to continue onwards. What made him come to a halt, he couldn't say, but somehow, he knew it was better this way.

And then with painful realisation he knew why.

Kurt had taken the figure from Leo and Virgil's hands, and carrying them alone, carefully jumped back down off the back of the bus. They looked terribly small in the large fire-fighters arms, and, he regretfully noted, awfully still.

A good few feet away from the bus, Kurt stopped, and bent down low to the ground to place the person he was carrying on the ground. Paramedics began to swarm, but at a subtle shake of a head, all but a few dropped back respectfully.

Time seemed to rush back then, flooding Scott, with numbing understanding and a hundred and one things he felt he needed to do, to say… But the only one he could manage was to look towards Virgil.

The eighteen year old stood side by side with Leo in the doorway, as though frozen there, the latter with a hand on the shoulder of the younger. The haunted, afraid look was still on Virgil's face, but lesser so than when _he_ had been bearing the body.

For a fleeting moment, the over-protective side of Scott reared it's head, he wanted to rush forwards, hold Virgil close to him… take him home… beg his brother for forgiveness for ever allowing his family into this situation…

And then the moment was gone; the duo vanished back into the bus to continue in what they had started and Scott felt a sudden rush of pride for not only his only present brother, but also the whole entirety of his family; the men they had become and would be.

_Elsewhere on the Lake Oahe Bridge, same kind of time;_

Fire fighters and volunteers continued to disperse across the overpass, searching out the wounded and trapped amongst the wreckage. Twos and threes broke off in varying directions at sightings of people possibly in need, and at the sounds of those calling out, or trying to break free.

One such pair was investigating a series of abandoned cars, when a young adolescent began running, dodging debris and jumping obstacles, towards them.

"Pl… please, come with… me. My… my friend… she's hurt… over… there."

Breathless from running, and desperate for help, the boy stuttered out his plea, pointing frantically towards where he had come from.

Taking in the rough appearance of the boy standing there panting, his dusty clothing, scratched face, and mussed black hair; one of the two he addressed did the only thing they could, and said,

"Of course, son. Just show us where."

And began to follow the anxious fifteen year old to the place where his friend lay in need.

_Inside the bus, Route 12, a little later;_

He'd caught a glimpse of the single sheeted figure that lie by themselves, through one of the cracked and splintered windows as he edged towards the front of the bus, and felt a pang of sorrow for the elderly man that had been evacuated since.

The greying woman had been and _was_ the last of his decrepit and war-torn family; his only son having been killed in a far-middle eastern country, fighting for something he wasn't even sure he believed in, at some point that now felt like lifetimes and generations ago.

The aging gentleman had told Virgil this; whilst the young man had worked to free him, forever keeping the hope that his wife was alive and would soon be well, and as he nodded and agreed the eighteen-year old boy had not had the heart to say that she was gone.

With the insistence that he could, _and would,_ walk, Leo had helped the man from the vehicle, leaving Virgil to begin to tend to the last remaining occupant of the overpass bus. Picking his way over ripped and fraying seating, Virgil edged out past the point where the bus left the bridge, and right to the front.

Still squeezing by a bright yellow, upright pole that had bent and twisted about it's centre, the rescuer called out,

"Hey. Hello? Can you hear me?"

There was no reply, not that one had been expected, and so Virgil pulled his rucksack through behind him, and pushed two fingers up against the driver's neck.

_On board Thunderbird Two, about the same time;_

Brains had not heard from anyone on the ground, or from the island, for some time; but was keeping a keen eye on the bank of camera monitors that showed what was going on below the huge craft.

Five people had been pulled from the bus, the last having just appeared out of the battered and dented vehicle, escorted by a single fire fighter. Virgil must have stayed inside to continue with the evacuation.

For a while the shy, blue bi-spectacled, young genius had wished that the designated pilot had been up in the sky with him, as the winds tried to push and buffet Two about, and she kept slewing from side to side. They may have been his creation, but Brains was no military-class pilot, and at times he struggled to hold the ship in place.

He knew all of the technical points and information behind how a craft this size should react, and how to be pro-active in stopping dangerous situations, but sometimes it took more than just knowledge; often a bit of gut-feeling and instinct was a much better way to fly an aeroplane, something he would easily admit to Virgil and Scott having more of.

However, Two had stayed in place enough that she'd not started dragging the bus around the edge of the bridge, and those inside and just beside it were as safe as they were ever going to be, given the circumstances.

Thinking he would call in with Scott, find out how many people were left to be removed, Brains began to reach over to connect the link, taking a single hand from the controls.

Outside another gust blew across the nose of the green giant, causing her to veer to the right, without the firm grip holding Two in place. Grabbing back his grasp of the plane, correcting the hover he was meant to be holding, Brains re-checked the data flowing across his screen, and the monitors, before swearing slightly, and opening up that connection to Scott.

_On the overpass, continuing on;_

As the behemoth hovering above had slewed sideways, the giant shadow that was being created beneath the aeroplane had shifted subtly, causing Scott to look up, with interest and mild concern.

Thunderbird Two was just repositioning herself above the scene, having caused no damage, when his watch comm. face began to light up, desperately seeking his attention. Keying the button, Scott answered.

"Hey Brains. You doing alright?"

"Y… yes, Scott, I'm f… fine, but, ah, we have a l… little problem."

"Problem?" At this Scott took a couple of precautionary steps away from the firemen and paramedics, who were trying to faintly eavesdrop on the conversation, and who didn't need to be unnecessarily worried.

His face mirroring the slight worry that the Field Commander knew was on his own, Brains replied,

"Yes. T… the winds are, ah, c… causing a small amount of, ah, h… havoc up here, and a… as I corrected the last, ah, gust, two warning l… lights came on."

"Telling us what, exactly?"

"That, ah, the t… two clamps holding the, ah, f… front of the vehicle, have l… lost a s… significant quantity of their, ah, h… hold on the bus."

"How?"

"I'm not s… sure at this moment, ah, Scott; but I think that all the, ah, slight changes in the t… tension of the cables, c… caused by Two moving, may have reduced the, ah, g… grip."

Sighing a little, but trying not to show it, Scott continued for Brains.

"So we're likely to lose complete contact on two clamps at some point?" A small nod met this statement through the screen. "So what do we do, and what does this mean?"

"Normally, I'd, ah, s… suggest re-placing the clamps, but with, ah, V… Virgil and others inside, it's not recommended, because of the consequences losing, ah, two of the c… clamps may mean."

Half knowing what the young genius behind most of International Rescue's technological wonders was going to say, Scott could barely bring himself to ask what those said consequences were.

"The bus m… may not be balanced, ah, anymore, after people h… have been moving around. It c… could, ah, fall."


	14. Split

**Look at that for updating! **

**14. Split**

Jefferson Tracy stood at the large, panoramic window; a half-full mug of coffee clasped in one hand, the other deep in his pocket. Red-gold streaks were just beginning to rise over the horizon, and pink light played across the patriarch's face, marking out each small line that was beginning to make it's way on to the handsomely chiselled, but starting to age features.

His previously iron-folded, stiff and sharp shirt stuck to him, and the collar flopped uselessly about his neck, the top few buttons loosened and forgotten.

Behind him control panels blinked and whispered, but they received little attention. Scott had just called through. Apparently things were yet again taking a decided turn for the worse out in South Dakota.

Two of the clamps holding a falling bus, which currently contained a driver, a fire fighter and his middle son, were failing; and if something wasn't done soon, the whole set-up was likely to plunge into the lake below, taking those inside with it.

Taking another lukewarm mouthful of heavily sweetened coffee, Jeff grimaced, and poured the remainder of the cup into an already over-watered pot plant to the left of the window.

Wasn't the first time he'd stood staring out at the rapidly appearing horizon that night, and certainly it wouldn't be the last.

However, right about then, all he could do was wait for news; a position unfamiliar to the hands-on, take-action, shrewd businessman and father.

_Route 12, inside the bus, whilst the message is passed along;_

Fairly well muscled, but pointedly shorter than three of his brothers, Virgil Tracy was almost the exact image a swooning, long haired, fan-girl might call to mind when describing her perfect hero at a girls night in, eat as much junk as you can, sleepover.

Dark haired and dark eyed, he was compassionate to the last, and strived to do everything he could for someone else in need.

Fingers pressed up to the driver's pale and clammy neck, he counted out the beats he felt, one eye on his watch, the other on the rear of the bus where Leo was just beginning to make his way back over.

"It'll be alright, you'll see. We'll get you free of here, and the medics will have you patched up in no time. You'll see."

The eighteen year old murmured to the unconscious man, his attention still split in two directions, reassuring both himself and the bus driver, as Leo finally squeezed through between the curled and warped yellow upright.

"His pulse is weak, but it's there."

"Good." Then looking around at the immediate area surrounding the injured man. "What say we untangle, scoop and get the hell out of Dodge?"

"Sounds like a plan to..."

A sudden noise cut Virgil off mid-sentence, sounding like crunching metal and chewed-up and spat out nails. _And_ as if that wasn't bad enough, the floor beneath them gave a violent lurch, edging further out off the overpass, before settling again.

Leo made as if to speak, but a silencing hand was raised, as Virgil's wrist comm. began to vibrate and flash in earnest.

Then it was Virgil's turn to be silenced, as Scott, through the miniature screen on his arm, gave him a deathly look.

"Virge, I need you to listen, and to listen hard." The tiny transmitted face paused, looking over it's shoulder before continuing. "The clamps are failing. One's gone already and another's not far off following. The bus is _not_ safe anymore. You hear, Virge, it's _not_ safe. You need to grab the driver if you can, and get off. Understood?"

Confused, the dark-haired, creative pilot stared back at his eldest brother, wide eyed.

"Er, yeah, but, Scott…"

"No, Virgil. No 'buts'. Do. You. Understand?"

It'd been a while since Scott had been this blunt with any of his brothers. It was more a thing he had saved for mis-behaving subordinates in the Air Force, imposing on Virgil just how important this must be.

"Okay, Scott. Yeah, I do. F.A.B." Then, cutting the connection and turning to Leo, "You heard him. Back to your plan, just, let's make it double-quick."

Hence, wanting off the bus now more than ever, Virgil Tracy pitched his upper body over the ticket dispensing side, and reached for the seat belt strapped across the driver's frame. Tugging at the woven, slate-dye bindings, he found them holding fast and as difficult to move as a 21-foot whale.

"It's no good." Hauling himself back over to rest on his feet, Virgil couldn't help the note of panic that edged into his speech, spurred on by Scott's message.

"Here, let me try."

So the pair exchanged positions, allowing Leo to hoist himself over the division. Once he'd gathered his bearings, the fire fighter gave the restraint an abrupt yank, not expecting any movement, but wanting to check before he pulled a short-bladed knife from his jacket pocket.

Giving a scrubby grin, Leo said,

"_Not _standard issue, but useful all the same."

It became Virgil's almost-catchphrase a little into the future, whenever he later used a small knife that he kept concealed within an inner pocket, on rescues. Much to his brothers' chagrin, who never quite found out the full story, he called it his 'Leo-knife' and saved a fair few people with it too.

Slashing at the seat belt Leo pulled the torn pieces away, freeing the trapped, before pulling himself back over the compartment walling.

_Onboard Thunderbird Two, continuing on;_

Warning lights screamed out crimson and flaming across the mechanisms control panel to the pilot's right, and ominous beeps howled in cautioning tones. Regardless of all the not-so-distant commotion, Brains worked on fixing the problem the only way he really knew how. Prioritise.

_First: Get Thunderbird Two __**properly**__ under control._

_Second: Safely evacuate the bus._

_Third: Secure the vehicle again, making it stable on the bridge._

(With the second and third being fully interchangeable, depending on which came first).

And so, the young genius ignored the machinery's calls for his attention, and continued fighting the controls of the gigantic craft, which seemed to have taken a severe objection to losing one of the clamps.

Conclusively deciding eventually that Two was safe enough for the moment, Brains turned his focus then to the gleaming, flaring lights. It was at this point that he felt the bottom drop further out of his world.

Whilst the status panel for a front clamp had turned red as it had come clear of the bus metalwork, the other front clamp had remained at a constant amber warning; dangerous but not fatal. Until now.

Desperately mashing the comm. link down to Scott, he simultaneously called up all of the telemetry available for the clamp system.

"What it is, Brains?"

The Field Commander's face filled a small portion of the smart glass windscreen, but the stand-in pilot barely spared it a glance.

"The s… second clamp is, ah, in it's l… last stages of holding."

"You're sure?"

Brains paused at this, knowing exactly and nearly understanding, just what the implications of his answer could be.

"Y… yes."

At this the young man made himself a promise; he lost his parents when he was too junior and inexperienced to make a difference, but this time he wasn't going to allow his restored, unique family to be destroyed. This time he could help, and come hell or high waters, he was going to all he could.

_Back inside the bus, continuing on again;_

Scott's most recent, desperately transmitted message had only served to stir-up and concern Virgil Tracy more. At any moment a second clamp could detach, and both he and the others with him could fall to the frigid, deep waters below.

Not _exactly_ how the eighteen-year-old had pictured his death, drowning in a sinking metal tin, that was.

Subsequently, he decided the best and preferred option available was to get out. Now.

Virgil thus, quickly explained all that he knew about the now highly dubious situation to Leo, who hadn't heard the conversation the two brothers had had. The fire fighter had pulled his elastic sleeve cuff up over his hand, and been brushing away the remaining sharp edged and dangerous shards of glass that had lined where the division window had been.

"Right. Well, sounds like we need to make good our escape, huh? I've cleaned up there as best as I can, so we can pull him over to our side."

Nodding, Virgil said,

"Alright. On the count of three?"

And so, the pair of rescuers each took hold of the driver, gripping either side under his arms. Hauling the unconscious figure out of the torn and damaged driver's booth, took much grunting and cursing on behalf of both the pilot and fireman, but they achieved it, the former slipping to the floor as the resistance disappeared.

Shoving the man's body off of himself with little courtesy or apologetic thought, Virgil picked himself up off the grubby, dirt coated and split plastic-y flooring.

Whilst he was doing so, Leo pushed himself back between the yellow upright and the bus side, from where he could successfully receive the driver.

_Outside the bus, Route 12, same time;_

Inside the vehicle a small, but all important rescue and retrieval was occurring. Outside there were just frayed nerves and anxious waits.

Upon Scott's orders, Kurt had stepped out from the emergency hatch at the rear… just in case.

And now the five men left on the bridge surrounding the vehicle could do nothing but bite their nails down till they bled and pray. Scott's normally steady pacing, had turned into a marathon, and one of the 'borrowed' firemen, Dillon had lain down, covering his eyes with an arm across his face, twitching at every sound and squinting towards the bus.

Seeing Scott frowning slightly at the young man, Frazier had signalled the pilot away, and in whispered tones explained

"Dillon went to high school with Leo. They did their training together, too. I'm sure you understand how hard all this waiting is for him?"

_You've no idea how much I understand, _Scott thought, but aloud said,

"Sure. I trained with Virge as well. It was a little like growing up together."

"Exactly." Smiling, Frazier walked away and bent down before the man on the ground, engaging him in what Scott was sure was just a distracting conversation.

However none of the gathered, the ex-USAF pilot, the burly fire fighter, were quite ready to let that dreaded outcome transpire yet. Not when there was still hope, and a way out.

_Inside the bus again, same kind of time;_

They'd squeezed past the bent and warped pole, and with Leo at the head, and Virgil supporting his legs; the pair slowly scurried towards the exit, progress slowed by the heavy burden they carried.

Struggling on though, they continued, knowing that if they stopped it could mean the difference between escape and entrapment.

Calling out as they went, Leo hoped that his crewmates, friends, would be there to help once they were in reach. Virgil didn't waste the energy. Scott would be there regardless. He always was.

Reaching the exit, Kurt had vaulted up, back into the bus, to help take some of the limp and unresponsive driver's weight. As he went to step back down, a dead-awakening, clanging, ringing noise sounded out through the vehicle again, shaking it to it's core. And just as he was about to speak, the most frightening and body-numbing development of the day occurred.

The bus continued sliding towards the edge, and as Scott ran forwards to help the trio from the vehicle, Virgil could hear Brains' frantic voice over his brothers watch comm. device.

"I… I've got to ditch it, ah, Scott. I'm s… sorry. The c… clamps are pulling, ah, off t… themselves. They'll t… tear clear of Two if, ah, I d… don't."

And there it was, the truth. This was it. The bus was going to fall any second now, and they were still trying to pull the injured out.


	15. Ending

**Hmm. Just kind-of wrapped itself up, this did. I thought there might be another chapter or two in it. Oh well, there's a separate one- or two-part to go with this, on the way; it's all planned out on paper. That bit of the plot didn't quite fit in here, but is completely related to this story. **

**Hope you have enjoyed coming along for the ride.  
**

**15. Endings**

Never releasing his grip on the driver's arms that he had just taken, Kurt Schlidt vaulted from the rear of the rapidly descending bus, just clearing the door. Behind him, he dragged the unconscious man, leaving just two within the metal confines of the vehicle, and saving the final civilian.

The International Rescue worker and one of the other firemen had surged forward as it had become apparent that the bus was going to continue slipping. A voice seemed to be shouting out from the younger man's watch, though Kurt had little time to wonder as the breath was knocked from his broad chest as the driver fell a-top of him.

Overhead the giant, green craft seemed to be yawing and flexing across the sky; unable to hold still and as restless as a newly awakened beast. The steel cables were twisting across the blue expanse, the two that had come loose, tangling amongst each other and ferociously clattering the plated under-belly of Thunderbird Two.

Within the metal and ripped, stitching-material lining of the overpass-bus, Virgil sensed (rather than felt, or heard) the final two clamps release. This time knowing that it was deliberate, that Brains was responsible and intentionally freeing the vehicle made his stomach leap a little more.

With nothing to hold it on to the bridge any longer, except the cable that had been wrapped around the axle, which was now loosening and coming free from the tension that had suddenly been put back on it, the bus began to accelerate over the edge.

Then he felt it. A sharp, un-wavering, nudging push.

And thereupon, Virgil Tracy found himself falling over the threshold of the rear hatch, where the front of his shirt was grabbed by two people and pulled to safety.

Collapsing on the tarmac-ed surface between two sets of laced and booted feet, the young pilot shook off the shock just in time to see the bus leave the edge of the overpass, and to hear the thundering, crashing of the vehicle breaking the surface of Lake Oahe and plummeting below the water.

Stunned for a moment, the confusion left him and as he began frantically looking around, Virgil realised who was missing, and with an unforeseen burst of energy vaulted to his feet, yelling,

"Leo! Leo?" And then turning on Scott and Frazier, "Where is he? Where's Leo?"

His brother tried to cut across, tried to explain, but it wasn't until Virgil heard another voice calling the same name, that he quieted. Dillon knelt at the edge of the overpass, shouting Leo's name out, whilst Nathan stood over him, helpless.

Elsewhere, paramedics were rushing to help the bus driver – but to the panic-stricken, teenage rescuer, nothing else existed except the ripples being to fade across the water surface, and whoever could tell him what he needed to know so desperately.

Turning back to Scott, Virgil asked again, this time his voice much softer, slightly broken,

"Leo?"

"He… I'm… Virge, he…" The words wouldn't quite form in his mouth, tasting like burnt ashes and bitter lemons.

"He… he pushed you from the bus, but… he lost his balance, and fell back. He was too far away to grab." Frazier had stepped forward; never taking his eyes from the pair of fire fighters crouched on the floor together though.

_Aboard Thunderbird Two, same time;_

With the last distressed and fraught transmission, Brains had turned off the magnetic points holding the final two clamps in place, allowing them to swing free.

As the red and amber warning lights flickered back to green and stable, the young genius pulled back on the controls and sent the behemoth soaring upwards, so that the flailing, heavy discs couldn't hit anyone.

Then, his previously organised list of priorities destroyed and mangled on the sidewalk, he set about making another. First was to winch the cables back in.

It took time, the wind and rockets were billowing them about, tangling them in the air, making it difficult for the motors to pull them apart. But it was done eventually. With the equipment stored, Brains allowed himself to look back to the outside camera monitors.

Even with the zoom jacked up, it was hard to see people from wreckage, so he keyed in the infrared filters, leaving homo sapiens a glowing yellowy-red colour within a jungle of deep blues and purples.

There were too many people though; more than his two friends and the five Fire Department workers. Medics.

Leaving just one sticky and undesirable option, Brains gritted his teeth, prayed to a God he never really believed all that much in (but that he knew the Tracys did) and sent a comm. message though to Scott.

_Just off the bridge, gathering point, a little after;_

Medical personnel walked purposefully about the area set-up to receive the injured and victims of the explosion. Just outside of the gathered, sitting on the floor staring out at the horizon was a single figure.

The hovercraft had been sent straight back out to search for Leo Clark, deployed through radio messages and much pleading. Deep inside they all knew that it would never get there in time, unless Leo had managed to swim free himself; but they weren't about to give up that easily, nor leave anyone behind.

The torn and distraught rescue group had left the bridge, some to wait for news of their colleague, some to find just a moment of rest.

The divers had returned just a scant thirty minutes later, and the lone figure had watched them bring a limp form ashore.

Scott had disappeared to speak with Chief Adams; with or without tragedy that was so much closer to home, there was still business to be sorted. Brains had landed Thunderbird Two on the original parking lot, before joining the Field Commander to discuss final plans.

The brown-eyed pilot didn't notice his brother approach him, and was startled a little when someone sat down beside him.

"You okay?"

The younger man shrugged a little, his unseeing gaze never wavering.

"It'll be alright, you know."

A pause followed before Virgil answered softly and quietly.

"I know."

"I've spoken to Chief Adams. He thanked us for our help, but said they were just performing a final sweep of the bridge, and then they'd be done. Nearly everyone's been evacuated now."

"Good."

"They're going to remove the supports, and if the structure falls, it falls. Apparently scavenger teams will be out in a couple of days to clear up the mess, and then they'll rebuild. I called Johnny; I thought he might find it amusing that his original plan was going to happen. Turns out most of N.A.S.A. has been fixed to the broadcasts being sent out."

"Okay."

Sighing, Scott reached out to his sibling, and put a hand on his shoulder, causing Virgil to turn and look straight at him.

"He knew what he was doing. Leo knew that he might not make it out when he decided to make sure you did. You need to remember that, Virge."

"It doesn't make it any easier though, Scott, knowing I survived and he didn't."

If it had been something that the Tracys did, Scott would have wrapped his arms around his brother at that point, but it wasn't. So he settled for a gentle, lingering backslap, before standing up and holding his hand out to Virgil.

_Same place, later;_

It had been deemed too dangerous for each support to be pulled out separately, in case the whole structure collapsed downwards, onto those doing the removals.

So braided steel cables had been linked up to each floating platform, and support pole, and then to the hovercraft. The little boat had moved away as far as it could, pulling the ropes taught, before Scott had been winched down from Thunderbird Two, to collect them, and then lifted back up.

Virgil had re-taken the controls of his 'bird, saying he needed the calm that flying brought him, and Scott hadn't argued. Probably be chewed out later by their father (_not_ while in the presence of Virgil) for allowing an emotionally distressed man to pilot any plane, let alone one the size of the Thunderbird, but for now it was worth it just to save arguments. Besides Scott trusted Virgil to say if he really wasn't fit to fly, and he figured it was no more dangerous than allowing his brother to operate the winch, or be lowered himself… right?

Okay. So the Field Commander knew he was lying to himself, but it seemed the best thing to do about then.

Once the cable-ends were inside the craft, they were fixed securely to points on the inside of the hull, and then when signalled Virgil had heated up the engines a little more, pushed forwards on the controls, and allowed the workhorse to pull the supports out from under the bridge, in one swift, clean manoeuvre.

Was a greater risk of the bridge falling this way, but much safer in terms of people and lives. Besides the likelihood was that the overpass would need to be destroyed in order to be built back, stronger.

The Mobridge Fire Department had been given back there support poles at this point, and International Rescue had collected their own floating platforms back in, before the giant craft landed one final time in the town. To say goodbyes, and all.

Chief Adams was waiting for the trio of rescuers, back on the ground, when they stepped back out.

Holding out his hand to the Field Commander of International Rescue, he said,

"Well, I guess this is a final 'thank-you' and good-bye."

Taking the proffered hand, Scott replied,

"Yeah, I guess it is."

"You've been such a help. If _any of you_ are in town again, feel free to drop in and say hello."

It was easier to agree than to decline because of security, the Chief would never know anyway.

"Thank-you. I'm sure we will."

"Well, good-bye."

All four shook hands, and then the mysterious, but never to be forgotten rescuers re-boarded their magnificent planes, leaving in a storm of hissing rockets and fiery exhaust.

_Earlier, around Route 12;_

Having found the trapped young girl, the volunteer rescuers had called in extra help, and worked to lever the heavy beams off.

A dusty, black-haired boy, who had said his name was Alex, stood patiently waiting at the side. As they had pulled the teenager free, the boy had rushed to her, reaching for and grasping her hand.

"See. I told you, Tilly. It's all going to be okay now."

The pair was swiftly evacuated off of the bridge, and with the girl in an unstable condition, she had been prioritised to go to hospital, the boy riding with her in the ambulance.

Later in the hospital, Matilda Green's mother appeared, and seeing how Alex Haddon, a boy she had always labelled as _'no good' _and even _'dangerous' _had stayed at her daughter's side though it all, she had to concede that he wasn't all bad.

Once her daughter was discharged and allowed home, Mrs. Green allowed Alex to come round every so often, for cup cakes and dinner. Her own way of saying 'thank-you'.

_A little over a week later, All Saints Cemetery;_

All but those fire fighters on duty, turned out to Leonard Joseph Clark's funeral. Alongside them and with them were all those who had been saved from the Route 12 explosion who could be there, and what seemed like most of Mobridge, itself.

A swarm of black-clothed mourners, there to celebrate the life of the only rescuer who gave their live that day.

The sky was overcast but rain held off, as men bore the coffin of the young man towards his final resting place; Dillon and Nathan at the front of the six, Frazier and Kurt just behind.

Words were said; how missed he would be, how he had given his life to save another. Flowers were laid.

Finally, when all was done, people began to move away, his family leaving last, supporting one another through the grief. It was then that two men, who'd stood away from the gathered, hidden by the leafy, green boughs of an evergreen, respectfully watching over the scene, moved forward.

Tall, blonde and un-readable, one of the men stopped before reaching the un-covered grave, allowing the other to go on alone. He'd never met the man being mourned for, and was only there as an escort, as it were.

The shortest of the pair, stepped right up to the stone at the top of the grave though, and knelt down before it, bowing his head, allowing short, brown, wisps of hair to be brushed across his face by the wind.

Knowing it was unlikely anyone else would ever understand the gesture but feeling it was the right thing to do nonetheless; he laid a small pocketknife in amongst the flowers.

Looking up at the grey-marble headstone, he murmured,

"Not standard issue, but useful all the same, right?"

Then he retreated back to where the other black-suited man waited, with one eye on the scene before him and the other on those leaving, who were still to notice the pair.

Once there, he turned back for one last look at where the man who had saved his life lay, and smiled.

"Thank-you."


End file.
